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INDIAN  TALES 


II  (flii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


INDIAN    TALES 


INDIAN  TALES 


By  Rudyard  Kipling 


NEW  YORK 
TUDOR  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1899,  by 
H.  M.  CALDWELL  CO. 

Copyright  by 
DODGE  PUBLISHING  CO. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


FR   , 

CONTENTS 

^'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"    . 

PAGE 
I 

With  the  Main  Guard 

49 

Wee  Willie  Winkie     . 

.       73 

The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars 

91 

At  Twenty -two  . 

107 

The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd 

125 

The  Story  of  Muhammad  Din 

165 

In  Flood  Time    . 

169 

My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

185 

The  Big  Drunk  Draf 

199 

By  Word  of  Mouth    . 

215 

The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft 

t 

223 

The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  . 

277 

On  the  City  Wall      . 

293 

The  Broken-link  Handicap  . 

332 

On  Greenhow  Hill 

341 

Indian  Tales 


To  Be  Filed  for  Reference 

The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King  . 

The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows     . 

The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney 

His  Majesty  the  King 

The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

In  the  House  of  Suddhoo  . 

Black  Jack 

The  Taking  of  Lungtungpen 

The  Phantom  Rickshaw 

On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness 

Private  Learoyd's  Story     . 

Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office 

The  Solid  Muldoon 

The  Three  Musketeers 

Beyond  the  Pale 

The  God  from  the  Machine 

The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment 

The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris 

L'Envoi 


371 
385 
446 

457 
500 

519 
558 

571 
600 

609 
648 
657 
670 
679 
694 
703 
713 
728 

737 
750 


"THE  FINEST  STORY  IN  THE 
WORLD  " 

*•  Or  ever  the  knightly  years  were  gone 
With  the  old  world  to  the  grave, 
I  was  a  king  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  Christian  slave." 
—  IF.  E.  Henley. 

HIS  name  was  Charlie  Mears;  he  was  the  only 
son  of  his  mother  who  was  a  widow,  and 
he  lived  in  the  north  of  London,  coming  into  the 
City  every  day  to  work  in  a  bank.  He  was 
twenty  years  old  and  suffered  from  aspirations. 
I  met  him  in  a  pubUc  billiard-saloon  where  the 
marker  called  him  by  his  given  name,  and  he 
called  the  marker  "  Bullseyes."  Charlie  ex- 
plained, a  little  nervously,  that  he  had  only  come 
to  the  place  to  look  on,  and  since  looking  on  at 
games  of  skill  is  not  a  cheap  amusement  for  the 
young,  I  suggested  that  Charlie  should  go  back 
to  his  mother. 

That  was  our  first  step  toward  better  acquaint- 
ance. He  would  call  on  me  sometimes  in  the 
evenings  instead  of  running"  about  London  with 
his  fellow-clerks;  and  before  long,  speaking  of 
himself  as  a  young  man  must,  he  told  me  of  his 
I 


2  Indian  Tales 

aspirations,  wiiich  were  all  literary.  He  desired 
to  make  himself  an  undying  name  chiefly  through 
verse,  though  he  was  not  above  sending  stories 
of  love  and  death  to  the  drop-a-penny-in-the- 
slot  journals.  It  was  my  fate  to  sit  still  while 
Charlie  read  me  poems  of  many  hundred  lines, 
and  bulky  fragments  of  plays  that  would  surely 
shake  the  world.  My  reward  was  his  unreserved 
confidence,  and  the  self-revelations  and  troubles 
of  a  young  man  are  almost  as  holy  as  those  of  a 
maiden.  Charlie  had  never  fallen  in  love,  but 
was  anxious  to  do  so  on  the  first  opportunity;  he 
believed  in  all  things  good  and  all  things  honor- 
able, but,  at  the  same  time,  was  curiously  careful 
to  let  me  see  that  he  knew  his  way  about  the 
world  as  befitted  a  bank  clerk  on  twenty-five 
shillings  a  week.  He  rhymed  "dove"  with 
"  love  "  and  "  moon  "  with  "  June,"  and  devoutly 
believed  that  they  had  never  so  been  rhymed  be- 
fore. The  long  lame  gaps  in  his  plays  he  filled 
up  with  hasty  words  of  apology  and  description 
and  swept  on,  seeing  all  that  he  intended  to  do 
so  clearly  that  he  esteemed  it  already  done,  and 
turned  to  me  for  applause. 

I  fancy  that  his  mother  did  not  encourage  his 
aspirations,  and  I  know  that  his  writing-table  at 
home  was  the  edge  of  his  washstand.  This  he 
told  me  almost  at  the  outset  of  our  acquaintance; 
when  he  was  ravaging  my  bookshelves,  and  a 


**The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  3 

little  before  I  was  implored  to  speak  the  truth  as 
to  his  chances  of  "writing  something  really 
great,  you  know."  Maybe  I  encouraged  him 
too  much,  for,  one  night,  he  called  on  me,  his 
eyes  tlaming  with  excitement,  and  said  breath- 
lessly: 

"Do  you  mind — can  you  let  me  stay  here  and 
write  all  this  evening?  I  won't  interrupt  you,  I 
won't  really.  There's  no  place  for  me  to  write 
in  at  my  mother's." 

"What's  the  trouble.^"  I  said,  knowing  well 
what  that  trouble  was. 

"  I've  a  notion  in  my  head  that  would  make 
the  most  splendid  story  that  was  ever  written. 
Do  let  me  write  it  out  here.     It's  such  a  notion!  " 

There  was  no  resisting  the  appeal.  I  set  him 
a  table;  he  hardly  thanked  me,  but  plunged  into 
the  work  at  once.  For  half  an  hour  the  pen 
scratched  without  stopping.  Then  Charlie  sighed 
and  tugged  his  hair.  The  scratching  grew 
slower,  there  were  more  erasures,  and  at  last 
ceased.  The  finest  story  in  the  world  would  not 
come  forth. 

"  It  looks  such  awful  rot  now,"  he  said,  mourn- 
fully. "  And  yet  it  seemed  so  good  when  I  was 
thinking  about  it.     Whafs  wrong  }  " 

1  could  not  dishearten  him  by  saying  the  truth. 
So  I  answered:  "Perhaps  you  don't  feel  in  the 
mood  for  writing." 


4  Indian  Tales 

"Yes  I  do — except  when  I  look  at  this  stuff. 
Ugh ! " 

"  Read  me  what  you've  done,"  I  said. 

"He  read,  and  it  was  wondrous  bad,  and  he 
paused  at  all  the  specially  turgid  sentences,  ex- 
pecting a  little  approval;  for  he  was  proud  of 
those  sentences,  as  1  knew  he  would  be. 

"It  needs  compression,"  1  suggested,  cau- 
tiously. 

"1  hate  cutting  my  things  down.  I  don't 
think  you  could  alter  a  word  here  without  spoil- 
ing the  sense.  It  reads  better  aloud  than  when  I 
was  writing  it." 

"Charlie,  you're  suffering  from  an  alarming 
disease  afflicting  a  numerous  class.  Put  the 
thing  by,  and  tackle  it  again  in  a  week." 

"I  want  to  do  it  at  once.  What  do  you  think 
of  it.?" 

"How  can  I  judge  from  a  half-written  tale? 
Tell  me  the  story  as  it  lies  in  your  head." 

Charlie  told,  and  in  the  telling  there  was  every- 
thing that  his  ignorance  had  so  carefully  pre- 
vented from  escaping  into  the  written  word.  I 
looked  at  him,  and  wondering  whether  it  were 
possible  that  he  did  not  know  the  originality,  the 
power  of  the  notion  that  had  come  in  his  way  } 
It  was  distinctly  a  Notion  among  notions.  Men 
had  been  puffed  up  with  pride  by  notions  not  a 
tithe  as  excellent  and  practicable.     But  Charlie 


*^The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  5 

babbled  on  serenely,  interrupting  the  current  of 
pure  fancy  with  samples  of  horrible  sentences 
that  he  purposed  to  use.  I  heard  him  out  to  the 
end.  It  would  be  folly  to  allow  his  idea  to  re- 
main in  his  own  inept  hands,  when  I  could  do  so 
much  with  it.  Not  all  that  could  be  done  in- 
deed; but,  oh  so  much! 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  said,  at  last.  ".I 
fancy  I  shall  call  it  '  The  Story  of  a  Ship.'  " 

"I  think  the  idea's  pretty  good;  but  you  won't 
be  able  to  handle  it  for  ever  so  long.     Now  I  "— 

"  Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  you  }  Would  you 
care  to  take  it  ?  I  should  be  proud,"  said  Charlie, 
promptly. 

There  are  few  things  sweeter  in  this  world 
than  the  guileless,  hot-headed,  intemperate,  open 
admiration  of  a  junior.  Even  a  woman  in  her 
blindest  devotion  does  not  fall  into  the  gait  of  the 
man  she  adores,  tilt  her  bonnet  to  the  angle  at 
which  he  wears  his  hat,  or  interlard  her  speech 
with  his  pet  oaths.  And  Charlie  did  all  these 
things.  Still  it  was  necessary  to  salve  my  con- 
science before  I  possessed  myself  of  Charlie's 
thoughts. 

"  Let's  make  a  bargain.  I'll  give  you  a  fiver 
for  the  notion,"  I  said. 

Charlie  became  a  bank-clerk  at  once. 

"Oh,  that's  impossible.  Between  two  pals, 
you  know,  if  I  may  call  you  so,  and  speaking  as 


6  Indian  Tales 

a  man  of  the  world,  I  couldn't.  Take  the  notion 
if  it's  any  use  to  you.     I've  heaps  more." 

He  had — none  knew  this  better  than  I — but 
they  were  the  notions  of  other  men. 

'*  Look  at  it  as  a  matter  of  business — between 
men  of  the  world,"  1  returned.  "Five  pounds 
will  buy  you  any  number  of  poetry-books.  Busi- 
ness is  business,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  shouldn't 
give  that  price  unless  " — 

"Oh,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  said  Charlie, 
visibly  moved  by  the  thought  of  the  books.  The 
bargain  was  clinched  with  an  agreement  that  he 
should  at  unstated  intervals  come  to  me  with  all 
the  notions  that  he  possessed,  should  have  a  table 
of  his  own  to  write  at,  and  unquestioned  right  to 
inflict  upon  me  all  his  poems  and  fragments  of 
poems.  Then  1  said,  "Now  tell  me  how  you 
came  by  this  idea." 

"It  came  by  itself."  Charlie's  eyes  opened  a 
little. 

"Yes,  but  you  told  me  a  great  deal  about  the 
hero  that  you  must  have  read  before  somewhere." 

"I  haven't  any  time  for  reading,  except  when 
you  let  me  sit  here,  and  on  Sundays  I'm  on  my 
bicycle  or  down  the  river  all  day.  There's  noth- 
ing wrong  about  the  hero,  is  there  ?  " 

"Tell  me  again  and  I  shall  understand  clearly. 
You  say  that  your  hero  went  pirating.  How  did 
he  live  ?  " 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World '^  7 

"  He  was  on  the  lower  deck  of  this  ship-thing 
that  I  was  telling  you  about." 

"What  sort  of  ship?" 

"It  was  the  kind  rowed  with  oars,  and  the  sea 
spurts  through  the  oar-holes  and  the  men  row 
sitting  up  to  their  knees  in  water.  Then  there's 
a  bench  running  down  between  the  two  lines  of 
oars  and  an  overseer  with  a  whip  walks  up  and 
down  the  bench  to  make  the  men  work." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  It's  in  the  tale.  There's  a  rope  running  over- 
head, looped  to  the  upper  deck,  for  the  overseer 
to  catch  hold  of  when  the  ship  rolls.  When  the 
overseer  misses  the  rope  once  and  falls  among 
the  rowers,  remember  the  hero  laughs  at  him  and 
gets  licked  for  it.  He's  chained  to  his  oar  of 
course — the  hero." 

"  How  is  he  chained  ?  " 

"  With  an  iron  band  round  his  waist  fixed  to 
the  bench  he  sits  on,  and  a  sort  of  handcuff  on 
his  left  wrist  chaining  him  to  the  oar.  He's  on 
the  lower  deck  where  the  worst  men  are  sent, 
and  the  only  light  comes  from  the  hatchways 
and  through  the  oar-holes.  Can't  you  imagine 
the  sunlight  just  squeezing  through  between  the 
handle  and  the  hole  and  wobbling  about  as  the 
ship  moves  ?" 

"  I  can,  but  I  can't  imagine  your  imagining  it." 

"  How  could  it  be  any  other  way.?    Now  you 


8  Indian  Tales 

listen  to  me.  The  long  oars  on  the  upper  deck 
are  managed  by  four  men  to  each  bench,  the 
lower  ones  by  three,  and  the  lowest  of  all  by 
two.  Remember  it's  quite  dark  on  the  lowest 
deck  and  all  the  men  there  go  mad.  When  a 
man  dies  at  his  oar  on  that  deck  he  isn't  thrown 
overboard,  but  cut  up  in  his  chains  and  stuffed 
through  the  oar-hole  in  little  pieces." 

"Why?"  I  demanded,  amazed,  not  so  much  at 
the  information  as  the  tone  of  command  in  which 
it  was  flung  out. 

"To  save  trouble  and  to  frighten  the  others. 
It  needs  two  overseers  to  drag  a  man's  body  up 
to  the  top  deck;  and  if  the  men  at  the  lower 
deck  oars  were  left  alone,  of  course  they'd  stop 
rowing  and  try  to  pull  up  the  benches  by  all 
standing  up  together  in  their  chains." 

"  You've  a  most  provident  imagination.  Where 
have  you  been  reading  about  galleys  and  galley- 
slaves  ?  " 

"Nowhere  that  I  remember.  I  row  a  little 
when  I  get  the  chance.  But,  perhaps,  if  you  say 
so,  I  may  have  read  something." 

He  went  away  shortly  afterward  to  deal  with 
booksellers,  and  I  wondered  how  a  bank  clerk 
aged  twenty  could  put  into  my  hands  with  a 
profligate  abundance  of  detail,  all  given  with  ab- 
solute assurance,  the  story  of  extravagant  and 
bloodthirsty  adventure,   riot,   piracy,  and  death 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  g 

in  unnamed  seas.  He  had  led  his  hero  a  des- 
perate dance  through  revolt  against  the  over- 
seers, to  command  of  a  ship  of  his  own,  and  ulti- 
mate establishment  of  a  kingdom  on  an  island 
"somewhere  in  the  sea,  you  know  ";  and,  de- 
lighted with  m.y  paltry  five  pounds,  had  gone  out 
to  buy  the  notions  of  other  men,  that  these  might 
teach  him  how  to  write.  1  had  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  this  notion  was  mine  by  right 
of  purchase,  and  1  thought  that  1  could  make 
something  of  it. 

When  next  he  came  to  me  he  was  drunk — 
royally  drunk  on  many  poets  for  the  first  time 
revealed  to  him.  His  pupils  were  dilated,  his 
words  tumbled  over  each  other,  and  he  wrapped 
himself  in  quotations.  Most  of  all  was  he  drunk 
with  Longfellow. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  ?  Isn't  it  superb  ?  "  he  cried, 
after  hasty  greetings.     "  Listen  to  this  — 

"  « Wouldst  thou,' — so  the  hehiisman  answered, 
'  Know  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery.' 

By  gum ! 

" '  Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery,' " 

he  repeated  twenty  times,  walking  up  and  down 
the  room  and  forgetting  me.     "  But  /  can  under- 


lo  Indian  Tales 

stand  it  too,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  for  that  fiver.  And  this; 
listen  — 

•' '  I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  ships 
And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free, 
And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea.* 

I  haven't  braved  any  dangers,  but  I  feel  as  if  I 
knew  all  about  it." 

"  You  certainly  seem  to  have  a  grip  of  the  sea. 
Have  you  ever  seen  it?" 

"When  I  was  a  little  chap  I  went  to  Brighton 
once;  we  used  to  live  in  Coventry,  though,  be- 
fore we  came  to  London.     I  never  saw  it, 

'• '  When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  Equinox.'  " 

He  shook  me  by  the  shoulder  to  make  me  un- 
derstand the  passion  that  was  shaking  himself. 

"When  that  storm  comes,"  he  continued,  "I 
think  that  all  the  oars  in  the  ship  that  I  was  talk- 
ing about  get  broken,  and  the  rowers  have  their 
chests  smashed  in  by  the  bucking  oar-heads.  By 
the  way,  have  you  done  anything  with  that 
notion  of  mine  yet .?" 

"No.  I  was  waiting  to  hear  more  of  it  from 
you.     Tell  me  how  in  the  world  you're  so  certain 


''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  il 

about  the  fittings  of  the  ship.  You  know  noth- 
ing of  ships." 

"I  don't  know.  It's  as  real  as  anything  to 
me  until  I  try  to  write  it  down.  I  was  thinking 
about  it  only  last  night  in  bed,  after  you  had 
loaned  me  '  Treasure  Island ' ;  and  I  made  up  a 
whole  lot  of  new  things  to  go  into  the  story." 

"What  sort  of  things  ?  " 

"About  the  food  the  men  ate;  rotten  figs  and 
black  beans  and  wine  in  a  skin  bag,  passed  from 
bench  to  bench." 

"  Was  the  ship  built  so  long  ago  as  that?" 

"  As  what  ?  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  long 
ago  or  not.  It's  only  a  notion,  but  sometimes  it 
seems  just  as  real  as  if  it  was  true.  Do  1  bother 
you  with  talking  about  it  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least.  Did  you  make  up  anything 
else?" 

"Yes,  but  it's  nonsense."  Charlie  flushed  a 
little. 

"Never  mind;  let's  hear  about  it." 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  over  the  story,  and 
after  awhile  I  got  out  of  bed  and  wrote  down  on 
a  piece  of  paper  the  sort  of  stuff  the  men  might 
be  supposed  to  scratch  on  their  oars  with  the 
edges  of  their  handcuffs.  It  seemed  to  make 
the  thing  more  lifelike.  It  is  so  real  to  me, 
y'know." 

"  Have  you  the  paper  on  you  ?  " 


12  Indian  Tales 

'•'Ye-es,  but  what's  the  use  of  showing  it? 
It's  only  a  lot  of  scratches.  All  the  same,  we 
might  have  'em  reproduced  in  the  book  on  the 
front  page." 

"I'll  attend  to  those  details.  Show  me  what 
your  men  wrote." 

He  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  with  a  single  line  of  scratches  upon  it, 
and  I  put  this  carefully  away. 

"What  is  it  supposed  to  mean  in  English.?"  I 
said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  means  'I'm 
beastly  tired.'  It's  great  nonsense,"  he  repeated, 
"but  all  those  men  in  the  ship  seem  as  real  as 
people  to  me.  Do  do  something  to  the  no- 
tion soon;  I  should  like  to  see  it  written  and 
printed." 

"But  all  you've  told  me  would  make  a  long 
book." 

"  Make  it  then.  You've  only  to  sit  down  and 
write  it  out." 

"Give  me  a  little  time.  Have  you  any  more 
notions.?" 

"  Not  just  now.  I'm  reading  all  the  books  I've 
bought.     They're  splendid." 

When  he  had  left  I  looked  at  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  with  the  inscription  upon  it.  Then  I  took 
my  head  tenderly  between  both  hands,  to  make 
certain   that  it   was  not  coming  off  or  turning 


**T}2e  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  13 

round.  Then  .  .  .  but  there  seemed  to  be 
no  interval  between  quitting  my  rooms  and  find- 
ing myself  arguing  with  a  policeman  outside  a 
door  marked  Private  in  a  corridor  of  the  British 
Museum.  All  I  demanded,  as  politely  as  possi- 
ble, was  "the  Greek  antiquity  man."  The  police- 
man knew  nothing  except  the  rules  of  the 
Museum,  and  it  became  necessary  to  forage 
through  all  the  houses  and  offices  inside  the 
gates.  An  elderly  gentleman  called  away  from 
his  lunch  put  an  end  to  my  search  by  holding  the 
note-paper  between  finger  and  thumb  and  sniff- 
ing at  it  scornfully. 

"What  does  this  mean?  H'mm,"  said  he. 
"So  far  as  I  can  ascertain  it  is  an  attempt  to 
write  extremely  corrupt  Greek  on  the  part " — 
here  he  glared  at  me  with  intention — "of  an  ex- 
tremely illiterate — ah — person."  He  read  slowly 
from  the  paper,  "Pollock,  Erckmann,  Taiiclniiti, 
Henniher" — four  names  familiar  to  me. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  the  corruption  is  sup- 
posed to  mean — the  gist  of  the  thing  .^"  I  asked. 

"I  have  been — many  times — overcome  with 
weariness  in  this  particular  employment.  That 
is  the  meaning."  He  returned  me  the  paper,  and 
I  fied  without  a  word  of  thanks,  explanation,  or 
apology. 

J  might  have  been  excused  for  forgetting  much. 
To  me  of  all  men  had  been  given  the  chance  to 


14  Indian  Tales, 

write  the  most  marvelous  tale  in  the  world, 
nothing  less  than  the  story  of  a  Greek  galley- 
slave,  as  told  by  himself.  Small  wonder  that  his 
dreaming  had  seemed  real  to  Charlie.  The  Fates 
that  are  so  careful  to  shut  the  doors  of  each  suc- 
cessive life  behind  us  had,  in  this  case,  been 
neglectful,  and  Charlie  was  looking,  though  that 
he  did  not  know,  where  never  man  had  been 
permitted  to  look  with  full  knowledge  since  Time 
began.  Above  all,  he  was  absolutely  ignorant 
of  the  knowledge  sold  to  me  for  five  pounds; 
and  he  would  retain  that  ignorance,  for  bank- 
clerks  do  not  understand  metempsychosis,  and  a 
sound  commercial  education  does  not  include 
Greek.  He  would  supply  me — here  I  capered 
among  the  dumb  gods  of  Egypt  and  laughed  in 
their  battered  faces — with  material  to  make  my 
tale  sure — so  sure  that  the  world  would  hail  it  as 
an  impudent  and  vamped  fiction.  And  1 — I 
alone  would  know  that  it  was  absolutely  and 
literally  true.  I, — I  alone  held  this  jewel  to  my 
hand  for  the  cutting  and  polishing.  Therefore  I 
danced  again  among  the  gods  till  a  policeman 
saw  me  and  took  steps  in  my  direction. 

It  remained  now  only  to  encourage  Charlie  to 
talk,  and  here  there  was  no  difficulty.  But  I  had 
forgotten  those  accursed  books  of  poetry.  He 
came  to  me  time  after  time,  as  useless  as  a  sur- 
charged phonograph — drunk  on  Byron,  Shelley,  or 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  15 

Keats.  Knowing  now  what  the  boy  had  been  in 
his  past  lives,  and  desperately  anxious  not  to  lose 
one  word  of  his  babble,  I  could  not  hide  from  him 
my  respect  and  interest.  He  misconstrued  both 
into  respect  for  the  present  soul  of  Charlie  Mears, 
to  whom  life  was  as  new  as  it  was  to  Adam,  and 
interest  in  his  readings;  and  stretched  my  pa- 
tience to  breaking  point  by  reciting  poetry — not 
his  own  now,  but  that  of  others.  I  wished  every 
English  poet  blotted  out  of  the  memory  of  man- 
kind. I  blasphemed  the  mightiest  names  of  song 
because  they  had  drawn  Charlie  from  the  path  of 
direct  narrative,  and  would,  later,  spur  him  to 
imitate  them;  but  I  choked  down  my  impatience 
until  the  first  flood  of  enthusiasm  should  have 
spent  itself  and  the  boy  returned  to  his  dreams. 

"What's  the  use  of  my  telling  you  what  / 
think,  when  these  chaps  wrote  things  for  the 
angels  to  read.?"  he  growled,  one  evening. 
"Why  don't  you  write  something  like  theirs  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  you're  treating  me  quite  fairly," 
I  said,  speaking  under  strong  restraint. 

"I've  given  you  the  story,"  he  said,  shortly, 
replunging  into  "Lara." 

"But  1  want  the  details." 

"The  things  I  make  up  about  that  damned 
ship  that  you  cal!  a  galley  ?  They're  quite  easy. 
You  can  just  make  'em  up  yourself.  Turn  up 
the  gas  a  little,  I  want  to  go  on  reading." 


i6  Indian  Tales 

I  could  have  broken  the  gas  globe  over  his 
head  for  his  amazing  stupidity.  I  could  indeed 
make  up  things  for  myself  did  I  only  know  what 
Charlie  did  not  know  that  he  knew.  But  since 
the  doors  were  shut  behind  me  1  could  only  wait 
his  youthful  pleasure  and  strive  to  keep  him  in 
good  temper.  One  minute's  want  of  guard 
might  spoil  a  priceless  revelation:  now  and  again 
he  would  toss  his  books  aside — he  kept  them  in 
my  rooms,  for  his  mother  would  have  been 
shocked  at  the  waste  of  good  money  had  she 
seen  them — and  launched  into  his  sea  dreams. 
Again  I  cursed  all  the  poets  of  England.  The 
plastic  mind  of  the  bank-clerk  had  been  overlaid, 
colored  and  distorted  by  that  which  he  had  read, 
and  the  result  as  delivered  was  a  confused  tangle 
of  other  voices  most  like  the  muttered  song 
through  a  City  telephone  in  the  busiest  part  of 
the  day. 

He  talked  of  the  galley — his  own  galley  had  he 
but  known  it — with  illustrations  borrowed  from 
the  "Bride  of  Abydos."  He  pointed  the  ex- 
periences of  his  hero  with  quotations  from 
"The  Corsair,"  and  threw  in  deep  and  desperate 
moral  reflections  from  "Cain  "and  "Manfred," 
expecting  me  to  use  them  all.  Only  when  the 
talk  turned  on  Longfellow  were  the  jarring 
cross-currents  dumb,  and  I  knew  that  Charlie 
was  speaking  the  truth  as  he  remembered  it- 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  ij 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  "  I  said  one  even- 
ing, as  soon  as  1  understood  the  medium  in  which 
his  memory  worked  best,  and,  before  he  could 
expostulate,  read  him  the  whole  of  "The  Saga 
of  KingOlaf!" 

He  listened  open-mouthed,  flushed,  his  hands 
drumming  on  the  back  of  the  sofa  where  he  lay, 
till  I  came  to  the  Song  of  Einar  Tamberskelver 
and  the  verse: 

"  Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 
From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered  :  '  That  was  Norway  breaking 
'Neath  thy  hand,  O  King.'  " 

He  gasped  with  pure  delight  of  sound. 

"That's  better  than  Byron,  a  little,"  1  ventured. 

"Better?  Why  it's  true/  How  could  he 
have  known  ?" 

J  went  back  and  repeated: 

" «  What  was  that  ?  '  said  Olaf,  standing 
On  the  quarter-deck, 
♦Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 
Of  a  shattered  wreck  ?  '  " 

"  How  could  he  have  known  how  the  ships 
crash  and  the  oars  rip  out  and  go  l-^p  all  along 
the  line?  Why  only  the  other  night.  .  .  . 
But  go  back  please  and  read  *  The  Skerry  of 
Shrieks '  again." 


1 8  Indian  Tales 

"  No,  I'm  tired.  Let's  talk.  What  happened 
the  other  night  ?  " 

"I  had  an  awful  nightmare  about  that  galley 
of  ours.  I  dreamed  I  was  drowned  in  a  fight. 
You  see  we  ran  alongside  another  ship  in  harbor. 
The  water  was  dead  still  except  where  our  oars 
whipped  it  up.  You  know  where  I  always  sit 
in  the  galley?"  He  spoke  haltingly  at  first,  un- 
der a  fine  English  fear  of  being  laughed  at. 

"No.  That's  news  to  me,"  I  answered, 
meekly,  my  heart  beginning  to  beat. 

"  On  the  fourth  oar  from  the  bow  on  the  right 
side  on  the  upper  deck.  There  were  four  of  us 
at  that  oar,  all  chained.  1  remember  watching 
the  water  and  trying  to  get  my  handcuffs  off  be- 
fore the  row  began.  Then  we  closed  up  on  the 
other  ship,  and  all  their  fighting  men  jumped  over 
our  bulwarks,  and  my  bench  broke  and  I  was 
pinned  down  with  the  three  other  fellows  on  top 
of  me,  and  the  big  oar  jammed  across  our  backs." 

"  Well  ?  "  Charlie's  eyes  were  alive  and  alight. 
He  was  looking  at  the  wall  behind  my  chair. 

"I  don't  know  how  we  fought.  The  men 
were  trampling  all  over  my  back,  and  I  lay  low. 
Then  our  rov/^ers  on  the  left  side — tied  to  their 
oars,  you  know — began  to  yell  and  back  water. 
I  could  hear  the  v/ater  sizzle,  and  we  spun  round 
like  a  cockchafer  and  I  knew,  lying  where  I  was. 
that  there  was  a  galley  coming  up  bow-on,  lo 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  19 

ram  us  on  the  left  side.  I  could  just  lift  up  my 
head  and  see  her  sail  over  the  bulwarks.  We 
wanted  to  meet  her  bow  to  bow,  but  it  was  too 
late.  We  could  only  turn  a  little  bit  because  the 
galley  on  our  right  had  hooked  herself  on  to  us 
and  stopped  our  moving.  Then,  by  gum!  there 
was  a  crash !  Our  left  oars  began  to  break  as  the 
other  galley,  ihe  moving  one  y'know,  stuck  her 
nose  into  them.  Then  the  lower-deck  oars  shot 
up  through  the  deck  planking,  butt  first,  and  one 
of  them  jumped  clean  up  into  the  air  and  came 
down  again  close  to  my  head." 

"  How  was  that  managed  }  " 

"The  moving  galley's  bow  was  plunking  them 
back  through  their  own  oar-holes,  and  1  could 
hear  the  devil  of  a  shindy  in  the  decks  below. 
Then  her  nose  caught  us  nearly  in  the  middle, 
and  we  tilted  sideways,  and  the  fellows  in  the 
right-hand  galley  unhitched  their  hooks  and 
ropes,  and  threv/  things  on  to  our  upper  deck — 
arrows,  and  hot  pitch  or  something  that  stung, 
and  we  went  up  and  up  and  up  on  the  left  side, 
and  the  right  side  dipped,  and  I  twisted  my  head 
round  and  saw  the  water  stand  still  as  it  topped 
the  right  bulwarks,  and  then  it  curled  over  and 
crashed  down  on  the  whole  lot  of  us  on  the  right 
side,  and  I  felt  it  hit  my  back,  and  I  woke." 

"One  minute,  Charlie.  When  the  sea  topped 
the  bulwarks,  what  did  it  look  like  ?"    I  had  my 


20  Indian  Tales 

reasons  for  asking.  A  man  of  my  acquaintance 
had  once  gone  down  witii  a  leaking  ship  in  a  still 
sea,  and  had  seen  the  water-level  pause  for  an 
instant  ere  it  fell  on  the  deck. 

"  It  looked  just  like  a  banjo-string  drawn  tight, 
and  it  seemed  to  stay  there  for  years,"  said 
Charlie. 

Exactly!  The  other  man  had  said:  "  It  looked 
like  a  silver  wire  laid  down  along  the  bulwarks, 
and  I  thought  it  was  never  going  to  break."  He 
had  paid  everything  except  the  bare  life  for  this 
little  valueless  piece  of  knowledge,  and  I  had 
traveled  ten  thousand  weary  miles  to  meet  him 
and  take  his  knowledge  at  second  hand.  But 
Charlie,  the  bank-clerk  on  twenty-five  shillings  a 
week,  he  who  had  never  been  out  of  sight  of  a 
London  omnibus,  knew  it  all.  It  was  no  conso- 
lation to  me  that  once  in  his  lives  he  had  been 
forced  to  die  for  his  gains.  I  also  must  have  died 
scores  of  times,  but  behind  me,  because  I  could 
have  used  my  knowledge,  the  doors  were  shut. 

"And  then.?"  I  said,  trying  to  put  away  the 
devil  of  envy. 

"The  funny  thing  was,  though,  in  all  the  mess 
I  didn't  feel  a  bit  astonished  or  frightened.  It 
seemed  as  if  I'd  been  in  a  good  many  fights,  be- 
cause I  told  my  next  man  so  when  the  row  be- 
gan. But  that  cad  of  an  overseer  on  my  deck 
wouldn't  unloose  our  chains  and  give  us  a  chance. 


''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'''  21 

He  always  said  that  we'd  all  be  set  free  after  a 
battle,  but  we  never  were;  we  never  were." 
Charlie  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  What  a  scoundrel!  " 

"  I  should  say  he  was.  He  never  gave  us 
enough  to  eat,  and  sometimes  we  were  so  thirsty 
that  we  used  to  drink  salt-water.  I  can  taste 
that  salt-water  still." 

"Now  tell  me  something  about  the  harbor 
where  the  fight  was  fought." 

"I  didn't  dream  about  that.  I  know  it  was  a 
harbor,  though;  because  we  were  tied  up  to  a 
ring  on  a  white  wall  and  all  the  face  of  the  stone 
under  water  was  covered  with  wood  to  prevent 
our  ram  getting  chipped  when  the  tide  made  us 
rock." 

"That's  curious.  Our  hero  commanded  the 
galley,  didn't  he  ?  " 

"Didn't  he  just!  He  stood  by  the  bovv^s  and 
shouted  like  a  good  'un.  He  was  the  man  who 
killed  the  overseer." 

"  But  you  were  all  drowned  together,  Charlie, 
weren't  you  .^'' 

"I  can't  make  that  fit  quite,"  he  said,  with  a 
puzzled  look.  "The  galley  must  have  gone 
down  with  all  hands,  and  yet  I  fancy  that  the 
hero  went  on  living  afterward.  Perhaps  he 
climbed  into  the  attacking  ship.  I  wouldn't  see 
that,  of  course.     I  was  dead,  you  know." 


22  Indian  Tales 

He  shivered  slightly  and  protested  that  he 
could  remember  no  more. 

1  did  not  press  him  further,  but  to  satisfy  my- 
self that  he  lay  in  ignorance  of  the  workings  of 
his  own  mind,  deliberately  introduced  him  to 
Mortimer  Collins's  "  Transmigration,"  and  gave 
him  a  sketch  of  the  plot  before  he  opened  the 
pages. 

"What  rot  it  all  is!"  he  said,  frankly,  at  the 
end  of  an  hour.  "I  don't  understand  his  non- 
sense about  the  Red  Planet  Mars  and  the  King, 
and  the  rest  of  it.  Chuck  me  the  Longfellow 
again." 

I  handed  him  the  book  and  wrote  out  as  much 
as  I  could  remember  of  his  description  of  the  sea- 
fight,  appealing  to  him  from  time  to  time  for 
confirmation  of  fact  or  detail.  He  would  answer 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  book,  as  assur- 
edly as  though  all  his  knowledge  lay  before  him 
on  the  printed  page.  1  spoke  under  the  normal 
key  of  my  voice  that  the  current  might  not  be 
broken,  and  I  know  that  he  was  not  aware  of 
what  he  was  saying,  for  his  thoughts  were  out 
on  the  sea  with  Longfellow. 

"Charlie,"  I  asked,  "when  the  rowers  on  the 
gallies  mutinied  how  did  they  kill  their  over- 
seers ?" 

"  Tore  up  the  benches  and  brained  'em.  That 
happened  when  a  heavy  sea  was  running.     An 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  23 

overseer  on  the  lower  deck  slipped  from  the 
centre  plank  and  fell  among  the  rowers.  They 
choked  him  to  death  against  the  side  of  the  ship 
with  their  chained  hands  quite  quietly,  and  it 
was  too  dark  for  the  other  overseer  to  see  what 
had  happened.  When  he  asked,  he  was  pulled 
down  too  and  choked,  and  the  lower  deck  fought 
their  way  up  deck  by  deck,  with  the  pieces  of 
the  broken  benches  banging  behind  'em.  How 
they  howled!" 

"And  what  happened  after  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  hero  went  av/ay — red 
hair  and  red  beard  and  all.  That  was  after  he 
had  captured  our  galley,  I  think." 

The  sound  of  my  voice  irritated  him,  and  he 
motioned  slightly  with  his  left  hand  as  a  man 
does  when  interruption  jars. 

"You  never  told  me  he  was  red-headed  be- 
fore, or  that  he  captured  your  galley,"  I  said, 
after  a  discreet  interval. 

Charlie  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"He  was  as  red  as  a  red  bear,"  said  he,  ab- 
stractedly. "  He  came  from  the  north;  they  said 
so  in  the  galley  when  he  looked  for  rowers — not 
slaves,  but  free  men.  Afterward — years  and 
years  afterward — news  came  from  another  ship, 
or  else  he  came  back  " — 

His  lips  moved  in  silence.  He  was  rapturously 
retasting  some  poem  before  him. 


24  Indian  Tales 

"Where  had  he  been,  then?"  I  was  almost 
whispering  that  the  sentence  might  come  gentle 
to  whichever  section  of  Charlie's  brain  was 
working  on  my  behalf. 

"To  the  Beaches — the  Long  and  Wonderful 
Beaches ! "  was  the  reply,  after  a  minute  of  silence. 

"To  Furdurstrandi.^"  1  asked,  tingling  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Yes,  to  Furdurstrandi,"  he  pronounced  the 
word  in  a  new  fashion.  "And  1  too  saw  " — 
The  voice  failed. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  said.?"  I 
shouted,  incautiously. 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  fully  roused  now.  "No!  " 
he  snapped.  "1  wish  you'd  let  a  chap  goon 
reading.     Hark  to  this: 

«' '  But  Othere,  the  old  sea  captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred 
Till  the  king  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 

"  '  And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons 
In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand  and  said, 
"  Behold  this  walrus  tooth."  ' 

By  Jove,  what  chaps  those  must  have  been,  to 
go  sailing  all  over  the  shop  never  knowing  where 
they'd  fetch  the  land !     Hah ! " 


■'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  25 

"Charlie,"  I  pleaded,  "if  you'll  only  be  sensi- 
ble for  a  minute  or  two  I'll  make  our  hero  in  our 
tale  every  inch  as  good  as  Othere." 

"Umph!  Longfellow  wrote  that  poem.  I 
don't  care  about  writing  things  any  more,  I 
want  to  read."  He  was  thoroughly  out  of  tune 
now,  and  raging  over  my  own  ill-luck,  1  left  him. 

Conceive  yourself  at  the  door  of  the  world's 
treasure-house  guarded  by  a  child — an  idle  irre- 
sponsible child  playing  knuckle-bones — on  whose 
favor  depends  the  gift  of  the  key,  and  you  will 
imagine  one  half  my  torment.  Till  that  evening 
Charlie  had  spoken  nothing  that  might  not  lie 
within  the  experiences  of  a  Greek  galley-slave. 
But  now,  or  there  was  no  virtue  in  books,  he 
had  talked  of  some  desperate  adventure  of  the 
■Vikings,  of  Thorfin  Karlsefne's  sailing  to  Wine- 
land,  which  is  America,  in  the  ninth  or  tenth 
century.  The  battle  in  the  harbor  he  had  seen; 
and  his  own  death  he  had  described.  But  this 
was  a  much  more  startling  plunge  into  the  past. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  skipped  half  a  dozen 
lives  and  was  then  dimly  remembering  some 
episode  of  a  thousand  years  later  ?  It  was  a 
maddening  jumble,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
Charlie  Mears  in  his  normal  condition  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  clear  it  up.  I  could 
only  wait  and  watch,  but  I  went  to  bed  that 
night  full  of  the  wildest  imaginings.     There  was 


26  Indian  Tales 

nothing  that  was  not  possible  if  Charlie's  detest- 
able memory  only  held  good. 

I  might  rewrite  the  Saga  of  Thorfln  Karlsefne 
as  it  had  never  been  written  before,  might  tell 
the  story  of  the  first  discovery  of  America,  my- 
self the  discoverer.  But  I  was  entirely  at  Charlie's 
mercy,  and  so  long  as  there  was  a  three-and-six- 
penny  Bohn  volume  within  his  reach  Charlie 
would  not  tell.  1  dared  not  curse  him  openly;  I 
hardly  dared  jog  his  memory,  for  1  was  dealing 
with  the  experiences  of  a  thousand  years  ago, 
told  through  the  mouth  of  a  boy  of  to-day ;  and 
a  boy  of  to-day  is  affected  by  every  change  of 
tone  and  gust  of  opinion,  so  that  he  lies  even 
when  he  desires  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  nearly  a  week. 
When  next  I  met  him  it  was  in  Gracechurch 
Street  with  a  billbook  chained  to  his  waist.  Busi- 
ness took  him  over  London  Bridge  and  I  accom- 
panied him.  He  was  very  full  of  the  impor- 
tance of  that  book  and  magnified  it.  As  we 
passed  over  the  Thames  we  paused  to  look  at 
a  steamer  unloading  great  slabs  of  white  and 
brown  marble.  A  barge  drifted  under  the 
steamer's  stern  and  a  lonely  cow  in  that  barge 
bellowed.  Charlie's  face  changed  from  the  face 
of  the  bank-clerk  to  that  of  an  unknown  and — 
though  he  would  not  have  believed  this — a  much 
shrewder  man.     He  flung  out  his  arm  across  the 


*^The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  27 

parapet  of  the  bridge  and  laughing  very  loudly, 
said: 

"  When  they  heard  our  bulls  bellow  the  SkrcEl- 
ings  ran  away! " 

1  waited  only  for  an  instant,  but  the  barge  and 
the  cow  had  disappeared  under  the  bows  of  the 
steamer  before  I  answered. 

"Charlie,  what  do  you  suppose  are  Skroel- 
ings?" 

"Never  heard  of  'em  before.  They  sound  like 
a  new  kind  of  seagull.  What  a  chap  you  are  for 
asking  questions! "  he  replied.  "1  have  to  go  to 
the  cashier  of  the  Omnibus  Company  yonder. 
Will  you  wait  for  me  and  we  can  lunch  some- 
where together?    I've  a  notion  for  a  poem." 

"  No,  thanks.  I'm  off.  You're  sure  you  know 
nothing  about  Skroelings  ?" 

"Not  unless  he's  been  entered  for  the  Liver- 
pool Handicap."  He  nodded  and  disappeared  in 
the  crowd. 

Now  it  is  written  in  the  Saga  of  Eric  the  Red 
or  that  of  Thorfin  Karlsefne,  that  nine  hundred 
years  ago  when  Karlsefne's  galleys  came  to  Leif  s 
booths,  which  Leif  had  erected  in  the  unknown 
land  called  Markland,  which  may  or  may  not  have 
been  Rhode  Island,  the  Skroelings — and  the  Lord 
He  knows  who  these  may  or  may  not  have  been 
— came  to  trade  with  the  Vikings,  and  ran  away 
because  they  were  frightened  at  the  bellowing  of 


28  Indian  Tales 

the  cattle  which  Thorfin  had  brought  with  him 
in  the  ships.  But  what  in  the  world  could  a 
Greek  slave  know  of  that  affair  ?  I  wandered  up 
and  down  among  the  streets  trying  to  unravel  the 
mystery,  and  the  more  I  considered  it,  the  more 
baffling  it  grew.  One  thing  only  seemed  certain, 
and  that  certainty  took  away  my  breath  for  the 
moment.  If  I  came  to  full  knowledge  of  anything 
at  all,  it  would  not  be  one  life  of  the  soul  in 
Charlie  Mears's  body,  but  half  a  dozen — half  a 
dozen  several  and  separate  existences  spent  on 
blue  water  in  the  morning  of  the  world! 

Then  I  walked  round  the  situation. 

Obviously  if  I  used  my  knowledge  I  should 
stand  alone  and  unapproachable  until  all  men 
were  as  wise  as  myself.  That  would  be  some- 
thing, but  manlike  I  was  ungrateful.  It  seemed 
bitterly  unfair  that  Charlie's  memory  should  fail 
me  when  1  needed  it  most.  Great  Powers  above 
— I  looked  up  at  them  through  the  fog  smoke — 
did  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death  know  what  this 
meant  to  me  }  Nothing  less  than  eternal  fame  of 
the  best  kind,  that  comes  from  One,  and  is  shared 
by  one  alone.  I  would  be  content — remember- 
ing Clive,  I  stood  astounded  at  my  own  modera- 
tion,— with  the  mere  right  to  tell  one  story,  to 
work  out  one  little  contribution  to  the  light  litera- 
ture of  the  day.  If  Charlie  were  permitted  full 
recollection  for  one  hour — for  sixty  short  minutes 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  29 

— of  existences  that  had  extended  over  a  thousand 
years — I  would  forego  all  profit  and  honor  from 
all  that  I  should  make  of  his  speech.  I  would 
take  no  share  in  the  commotion  that  would  fol- 
low throughout  the  particular  corner  of  the  earth 
that  calls  itself  "the  world."  The  thing  should 
be  put  forth  anonymously.  Nay,  I  would  make 
other  men  believe  that  they  had  written  it.  They 
would  hire  bull-hided  self-advertising  Englishmen 
to  bellow  it  abroad.  Preachers  would  found  a 
fresh  conduct  of  life  upon  it,  swearing  that  it 
was  new  and  that  they  had  lifted  the  fear  of  death 
from  all  mankind.  Every  Orientalist  in  Europe 
would  patronize  it  discursively  with  Sanskrit  and 
Pali  texts.  Terrible  women  would  invent  un- 
clean variants  of  the  men's  belief  for  the  elevation 
of  their  sisters.  Churches  and  religions  would 
war  over  it.  Between  the  hailing  and  re-starting 
of  an  omnibus  I  foresaw  the  scuffles  that  would 
arise  among  half  a  dozen  denominations  all  pro- 
fessing "the  doctrine  of  the  True  Metempsycho- 
sis as  applied  to  the  world  and  the  New  Era"; 
and  saw,  too,  the  respectable  English  newspapers 
shying,  like  frightened  kine,  over  the  beautiful 
simplicity  of  the  tale.  The  mind  leaped  forward 
a  hundred — two  hundred — a  thousand  years.  I 
saw  with  sorrow  that  men  would  mutilate  and 
garble  the  story  ;  that  rival  creeds  would  turn  it 
upside  down  till,  at  last,  the  western  world  which 


30  Indian  Tales 

clings  to  the  dread  of  death  more  closely  than  the 
hope  of  life,  would  set  it  aside  as  an  interesting 
superstition  and  stampede  after  some  faith  so 
long  forgotten  that  it  seemed  altogether  new. 
Upon  this  1  changed  the  terms  of  the  bargain  that 
1  would  make  with  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death. 
Only  let  me  know,  let  me  write,  the  story  with 
sure  knowledge  that  1  wrote  the  truth,  and  I 
would  burn  the  manuscript  as  a  solemn  sacrifice. 
Five  minutes  after  the  last  line  was  written  I 
would  destroy  it  all.  But  1  must  be  allowed  to 
write  it  with  absolute  certainty. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  flaming  colors  of 
an  Aquarium  poster  caught  my  eye  and  I  won- 
dered whether  it  would  be  wise  or  prudent  to 
lure  Charlie  into  the  hands  of  the  professional 
mesmerist,  and  whether,  if  he  were  under  his 
power,  he  would  speak  of  his  past  lives.  If  he 
did,  and  if  people  believed  him  .  .  .  but 
Charlie  would  be  frightened  and  flustered,  or 
made  conceited  by  the  interviews.  In  either  case 
he  would  begin  to  lie,  through  fear  or  vanity. 
He  was  safest  in  my  own  hands. 

"They  are  very  funny  fools,  your  English," 
said  a  voice  at  my  elbow,  and  turning  round  I 
recognized  a  casual  acquaintance,  a  young  Bengali 
law  student,  called  Grish  Chunder,  whose  father 
had  sent  him  to  England  to  become  civilized. 
The  old  man  was  a  retired  native  official,  and  on 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  31 

an  income  of  five  pounds  a  month  contrived  to 
allow  his  son  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and 
the  run  of  his  teeth  in  a  city  where  he  could  pre- 
tend to  be  the  cadet  of  a  royal  house,  and  tell 
stories  of  the  brutal  Indian  bureaucrats  who 
ground  the  faces  of  the  poor. 

Grish  Chunder  was  a  young,  fat,  full-bodied 
Bengali  dressed  with  scrupulous  care  in  frock 
coat,  tall  hat,  light  trousers  and  tan  gloves.  But 
I  had  known  him  in  the  days  when  the  brutal 
Indian  Government  paid  for  his  university  educa- 
tion, and  he  contributed  cheap  sedition  to  Sachi 
Durpan,  and  intrigued  with  the  wives  of  his 
schoolmates. 

"That  is  very  funny  and  very  foolish,"  he  said, 
nodding  at  the  poster.  "I  am  going  down  to 
the  Northbrook  Club.     Will  you  come  too  ?" 

I  walked  with  him  for  some  time.  "  You  are 
not  well,"  he  said.  "What  is  there  in  your 
mind  }    You  do  not  talk." 

"Grish  Chunder,  you've  been  too  well  educa- 
ted to  believe  in  a  God,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Oah,  yes,  here!  But  when  I  go  home  I 
must  conciliate  popular  superstition,  and  make 
ceremonies  of  purification,  and  my  women  will 
anoint  idols." 

"And  hang  up  tiilsi  and  feast  the  purohif,  and 
take  you  back  into  caste  again  and  make  a  good 
khuttri  of  you  again,  you  advanced  social  Free- 


32  Indian  Tales 

thinker.  And  you'll  eat  desi  food,  and  like  it  all, 
from  the  smell  in  the  courtyard  to  the  mustard  oil 
over  you." 

"  I  shall  very  much  like  it,"  said  Grish  Chunder, 
unguardedly.  "  Once  a  Hindu — always  a  Hindu. 
But  I  like  to  know  what  the  English  think  they 
know." 

"I'll  tell  you  something  that  one  Englishman 
knows.     It's  an  old  tale  to  you." 

1  began  to  tell  the  story  of  Charlie  in  English, 
but  Grish  Chunder  put  a  question  in  the  vernacular, 
and  the  history  went  forward  naturally  in  the 
tongue  best  suited  for  its  telling.  After  all  it  could 
never  have  been  told  in  English.  Grish  Chunder 
heard  me,  nodding  from  time  to  time,  and  then 
came  up  to  my  rooms  where  I  finished  the  tale. 

"  Beshak,"  he  said,  philosophically.  "  Lektn 
darwa^a  band  hai.  (Without  doubt,  but  the 
door  is  shut.)  I  have  heard  of  this  remembering 
of  previous  existences  among  my  people.  It  is 
of  course  an  old  tale  with  us,  but,  to  happen  to 
an  Englishman — a  cow-fed  Malechh — an  outcast. 
By  Jove,  that  is  most  peculiar!" 

"Outcast  yourself,  Grish  Chunder!  You  eat 
cow-beef  every  day.  Let's  think  the  thing  over. 
The  boy  remembers  his  incarnations." 

"Does  he  know  that?"  said  Grish  Chunder, 
quietly,  swinging  his  legs  as  he  sat  on  my  table. 
He  was  speaking  in  English  now. 


**The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  33 

"  He  does  not  know  anything.  Would  I  speak 
to  you  if  he  did  ?    Goon!" 

"  There  is  no  going  on  at  all.  If  you  tell  that 
to  your  friends  they  will  say  you  are  mad  and 
put  it  in  the  papers.  Suppose,  now,  you  pros- 
ecute for  libel." 

"Let's  leave  that  out  of  the  question  en- 
tirely. Is  there  any  chance  of  his  being  made 
to  speak  }" 

"There  is  a  chance.  Oah,  yess!  But  7/ he 
spoke  it  would  mean  that  all  this  world  would 
end  now — instaiito — fall  down  on  your  head. 
These  things  are  not  allowed,  \ou  know.  As  1 
said,  the  door  is  shut." 

"  Not  a  ghost  of  a  chance  ?  " 

"  How  can  there  be  }  You  are  a  Christi-an, 
and  it  is  forbidden  to  eat,  in  your  books,  of  the 
Tree  of  Life,  or  else  you  would  never  die.  How 
shall  you  all  fear  death  if  you  all  know  what  your 
friend  does  not  know  that  he  knows  ?  I  am 
afraid  to  be  kicked,  but  I  am  not  afraid  to  die, 
because  I  know  what  I  know.  You  are  not 
afraid  to  be  kicked,  but  you  are  afraid  to  die.  If 
you  were  not,  by  God!  you  English  would  be  all 
over  the  shop  in  an  hour,  upsetting  the  balances 
of  power,  and  making  commotions.  It  would 
not  be  good.  But  no  fear.  He  will  remember  a 
little  and  a  little  less,  and  he  will  call  it  dreams. 
Then  he  will  forget  altogether.     When  1  passed 


34  Indian  Tales 

my  First  Arts  Examination  in  Calcutta  that  was 
all  in  the  cram-book  on  Wordsworth.  Trailing 
clouds  of  glory,  you  know." 

"This  seems  to  be  an  exception  to  the  rule." 

"There  are  no  exceptions  to  rules.  Some  are 
not  so  hard-looking  as  others,  but  they  are  all  the 
same  when  you  touch.  If  this  friend  of  yours  said 
so-and-so  and  so-and-so,  indicating  that  he  re- 
membered all  his  lost  lives,  or  one  piece  of  a  lost 
life,  he  would  not  be  in  the  bank  another  hour. 
He  would  be  what  you  called  sack  because  he 
was  mad,  and  they  would  send  him  to  an  asylum 
for  lunatics.     You  can  see  that,  my  friend." 

"Of  course  I  can,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him. 
His  name  need  never  appear  in  the  story." 

"  Ah !  1  see.  That  story  will  never  be  written. 
You  can  try." 

"I  am  going  to." 

"For  your  own  credit  and  for  the  sake  of 
money,  of  course  ?  " 

"  No.  For  the  sake  of  writing  the  story.  On 
my  honor  that  will  be  all." 

"Even  then  there  is  no  chance.  You  cannot 
play  with  the  Gods.  It  is  a  very  pretty  story 
now.  As  they  say,  Let  it  go  on  that — I  mean  at 
that.     Be  quick;  he  will  not  last  long." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  I  say.  He  has  never,  so  far,  thought 
about  a  woman." 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  35 

"Hasn't  he,  though!"  I  remembered  some  of 
Charlie's  confidences. 

"  I  mean  no  woman  has  thought  about  him. 
When  that  comes;  bus — hogya — all  up!  I  know. 
There  are  millions  of  women  here.  Housemaids, 
for  instance." 

I  winced  at  the  thought  of  my  story  being 
ruined  by  a  housemaid.  And  yet  nothing  was 
more  probable. 

Grish  Chunder  grinned. 

"  Yes — also  pretty  girls — cousins  of  his  house, 
and  perhaps  not  of  his  house.  One  kiss  that  he 
gives  back  again  and  remembers  will  cure  all  this 
nonsense,  or  else  "  — 

"Or  else  what }  Remember  he  does  not  know 
that  he  knows." 

"  I  know  that.  Or  else,  if  nothing  happens  he 
will  become  immersed  in  the  trade  and  the  finan- 
cial speculations  like  the  rest.  It  must  be  so. 
You  can  see  that  it  must  be  so.  But  the  woman 
will  come  first,  /  think." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  Charlie 
charged  in  impetuously.  He  had  been  released 
from  office,  and  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  I  could 
see  that  he  had  come  over  for  a  long  talk;  most 
probably  with  poems  in  his  pockets.  Charlie's 
poems  were  very  wearying,  but  sometimes  they 
led  him  lo  talk  about  the  galley. 

Grish  Chunder  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a  minute. 


3^  Indian  Tales 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Charlie  said,  uneasily; 
"I  didn't  know  you  had  any  one  with  you." 

"I  am  going,"  said  Grish  Chunder. 

He  drew  me  into  the  lobby  as  he  departed. 

"  That  is  your  man,"  he  said,  quickly.  "I  tell 
you  he  will  never  speak  all  you  wish.  That  is 
rot — bosh.  But  he  would  be  most  good  to  make 
to  see  things.  Suppose  now  we  pretend  that  it 
was  only  play  " — I  had  never  seen  Grish  Chunder 
so  excited — '"and  pour  the  ink-pool  into  his  hand. 
Eh,  what  do  you  think  ?  I  tell  you  that  he  could 
see  anything  that  a  man  could  see.  Let  me  get 
the  ink  and  tne  camphor.  He  is  a  seer  and  he 
will  tell  us  very  many  things." 

"  He  may  be  all  you  say,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
trust  him  to  your  gods  and  devils." 

"  It  will  not  hurt  him.  He  will  only  feel  a 
little  stupid  and  dull  when  he  wakes  up.  You 
have  seen  boys  look  into  the  ink-pool  before." 

"That  is  the  reason  why  I  am  not  going  to  see 
it  any  more.     You'd  better  go,  Grish  Chunder." 

He  went,  declaring  far  down  the  staircase  that 
it  was  throwing  away  my  only  chance  of  look- 
ing into  the  future. 

This  left  me  unmoved,  for  I  was  concerned  for 
the  past,  and  no  peering  of  hypnotized  boys  into 
mirrors  and  ink-pools  would  help  me  to  that. 
But  I  recognized  Grish  Chunder's  point  of  view 
and  sympathized  with  it. 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  37 

"What  a  big  black  brute  that  was!"  said 
Charlie,  when  I  returned  to  him.  "Well,  look 
here,  I've  just  done  a  poem;  did  it  instead  of 
playing  dominoes  after  lunch.     May  I  read  it .?" 

"  Let  me  read  it  to  myself," 

"Then  you  miss  the  proper  expression.  Be- 
sides, you  always  make  my  things  sound  as  if 
the  rhymes  were  all  wrong." 

"Read  it  aloud,  then.  You're  like  the  rest  of 
'em." 

Charlie  mouthed  me  his  poem,  and  it  was  not 
much  worse  than  the  average  of  his  verses.  He 
had  been  reading  his  books  faithfully,  but  he  was 
not  pleased  when  1  told  him  that  1  preferred  my 
Longfellow  undiluted  with  Charlie. 

Then  we  began  to  go  through  the  MS.  line  by 
line;  Charlie  parrying  every  objection  and  cor- 
rection with: 

"  Yes,  that  may  be  better,  but  you  don't  catch 
what  I'm  driving  at." 

Charles  was,  in  one  way  at  least,  very  like  one 
kind  of  poet. 

There  was  a  pencil  scrawl  at  the  back  of  the 
paper  and  "  What's  that  .^"  I  said. 

"Oh  that's  not  poetry  at  all.  It's  some  rot  I 
wrote  last  night  before  I  went  to  bed  and  it  was 
too  much  bother  to  hunt  for  rhymes;  so  I  made 
it  a  sort  of  blank  verse  instead." 

Here  is  Charlie's  "blank  verse": 


38  Indian  Tales 

"  We  pulled  for  you  when  the  wind  was  against  us  and  the 
sails  were  low. 

Will  you  never  let  us  go  ? 

We  ate  bread  and  onions  when  you  took  towns  or  ran  aboard 
quickly  when  you  were  beaten  back  by  the  foe, 

The  captains  walked  up  and  down  the  deck  in  fair  weather 
singing  songs,  but  we  were  below, 

We   fainted  with  our  chins  on  the  oars  and  you  did  not  see 
that  we  were  idle  for  we  still  swung  to  and  fro. 
Will  you  never  let  us  go  ? 

The  salt  made   the   oar  handles  like  sharkskin ;  our  knees 
were  cut  to  the  bone  with  salt  cracks ;  our  hair  was  stuck  to 
our   foreheads ;  and  our   lips  were  cut  to  our  gums  and  you 
whipped  us  because  we  could  not  row. 
Will  you  never  let  us  go  ? 

But  in  a  little  time  we  shall  run  out  of  the  portholes  as  the 
water  runs  along  the  oarblade,  and  though  you  tell  the  others 
to  row  after  us  you  will  never  catch  us  till  you  catch  the  oar- 
thresh  and  tie  up  the  winds  in  the  belly  of  the  sail.     Aho ! 
Will  you  never  let  its  go  ?  " 

"H'm.     What's  oar-thresh,  Charlie?" 

"The  water  washed  up  by  the  oars.  That's 
the  sort  of  song  they  might  sing  in  the  galley,  y* 
know.  Aren't  you  ever  going  to  finish  that  story 
and  give  me  some  of  the  profits  ?" 

"  It  depends  on  yourself.  If  you  had  only  told 
me  more  about  your  hero  in  the  first  instance  it 
might  have  been  finished  by  now.  You're  so 
hazy  in  your  notions." 

"  1  only  want  to  give  you  the  general  notion  of 
it — the  knocking  about  from  place  to  place  and 


''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  39 

the  fighting  and  all  that.  Can't  you  fill  in  the 
rest  yourself?  Make  the  hero  save  a  girl  on  a 
pirate-galley  and  marry  her  or  do  something." 

**  You're  a  really  helpful  collaborator.  I  sup- 
pose the  hero  went  through  some  few  adventures 
before  he  married." 

"Well  then,  make  him  a  very  artful  card — a 
low  sort  of  man — a  sort  of  political  man  who 
went  about  making  treaties  and  breaking  them — 
a  black-haired  chap  who  hid  behind  the  mast 
when  the  fighting  began." 

"  But  you  said  the  other  day  that  he  was  red- 
haired." 

"I  couldn't  have.  Make  him  black-haired  of 
course.     You've  no  imagination." 

Seeing  that  I  had  just  discovered  the  entire 
principles  upon  which  the  half-memory  falsely 
called  imagination  is  based,  I  felt  entitled  to 
laugh,  but  forbore,  for  the  sake  of  the  tale. 

"You're  right.  You're  the  man  with  imagi- 
nation. A  black-haired  chap  in  a  decked  ship," 
I  said. 

"No,  an  open  ship — like  a  big  boat." 

This  was  maddening. 

"Your  ship  has  been  built  and  designed, 
closed  and  decked  in;  you  said  so  yourself,"  I 
protested. 

"No,  no,  not  that  ship.  That  was  open,  or 
half  decked  because —    By  Jove  you're   right. 


40  Indian  Tales 

You  made  me  think  of  the  hero  as  a  red-haired 
chap.  Of  course  if  he  were  red,  the  ship  would 
be  an  open  one  with  painted  sails." 

Surely,  I  thought,  he  would  remember  now 
that  he  had  served  in  two  galleys  at  least — in  a 
three-decked  Greek  one  under  the  black-haired 
"political  man,"  and  again  in  a  Viking's  open 
sea-serpent  under  the  man  "red  as  a  red  bear" 
who  went  to  Markland.  The  devil  prompted  me 
to  speak. 

"Why,  'of  course,'  Charlie.?"  said  I. 

"  I  don't  know.     Are  you  making  fun  of  me  ?  " 

The  current  was  broken  for  the  time  being.  I 
took  up  a  notebook  and  pretended  to  make 
many  entries  in  it. 

"It's  a  pleasure  to  work  with  an  imaginative 
chap  like  yourself,"  I  said,  after  a  pause.  "The 
way  that  you've  brought  out  the  character  of  the 
hero  is  simply  wonderful." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  answered,  with  a 
pleased  flush.  "I  often  tell  myself  that  there's 
more  in  me  than  my  mo —  than  people  think." 

"  There's  an  enormous  amount  in  you." 

"Then,  won't  you  let  me  send  an  essay  on 
The  Ways  of  Bank  Clerks  to  Tit-Bits,  and  get 
the  guinea  prize?" 

"That  wasn't  exactly  what  I  meant,  old  fel- 
low: perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  wait  a  little 
and  go  ahead  with  the  galley-story." 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  41 

"  Ah,  but  1  sha'n't  get  the  credit  of  that.  Tit- 
Bits  would  publish  my  name  and  address  if  I 
win.     What  are  you  grinning  at  }    They  would." 

"I  know  it.  Suppose  you  go  for  a  wali<,  I 
want  to  look  through  my  notes  about  our  story." 

Now  this  reprehensible  youth  who  left  me,  a 
little  hurt  and  put  back,  might  for  aught  he  or  I 
knew  have  been  one  of  the  crew  of  the  Argo — 
had  been  certainly  slave  or  comrade  to  Thorfm 
Karlsefne.  Therefore  he  was  deeply  interested 
in  guinea  competitions.  Remembering  what 
Grish  Chunder  had  said  I  laughed  aloud.  The 
Lords  of  Life  and  Death  would  never  allow 
Charlie  Mears  to  speak  with  full  knowledge  of 
his  pasts,  and  I  must  even  piece  out  what  be  had 
told  me  with  my  own  poor  inventions  while 
Charlie  wrote  of  the  ways  of  bank-clerks. 

I  got  together  and  placed  on  one  file  all  my 
notes;  and  the  net  result  was  not  cheering.  I 
read  them  a  second  time.  There  was  nothing 
that  might  not  have  been  compiled  at  second- 
hand from  other  people's  books — except,  per- 
haps, the  story  of  the  fight  in  the  harbor.  The 
adventures  of  a  Viking  had  been  written  many 
times  before;  the  history  of  a  Greek  galley-slave 
was  no  new  thing, 'and  though  I  wrote  both, 
who  could  challenge  or  confirm  the  accuracy  of 
my  details  }  I  might  as  well  tell  a  tale  of  two 
thousand  years  hence.     The  Lords  of  Life  and 


42  Indian  Tales 

Death  were  as  cunning  as  Grish  Chunder  had 
hinted.  They  would  allow  nothing  to  escape 
that  might  trouble  or  make  easy  the  minds  of 
men.  Though  I  was  convinced  of  this,  yet  I 
could  not  leave  the  tale  alone.  Exaltation  fol- 
lowed reaction,  hot  once,  but  twenty  times  in 
the  next  few  weeks.  My  moods  varied  with  the 
March  sunlight  and  flying  clouds.  By  night  or 
in  the  beauty  of  a  spring  morning  1  perceived 
that  I  could  write  that  tale  and  shift  continents 
thereby,  in  the  wet,  windy  afternoons,  1  saw 
that  the  tale  might  indeed  be  written,  but  would 
be  nothing  more  than  a  faked,  false-varnished, 
sham-rusted  piece  of  Wardour  Street  work  at 
the  end.  Then  1  blessed  Charlie  in  many  ways 
— though  it  was  no  fault  of  his.  He  seemed  to 
be  busy  with  prize  competitions,  and  I  saw  less 
and  less  of  him  as  the  weeks  went  by  and  the 
earth  cracked  and  grew  ripe  to  spring,  and  the 
buds  swelled  in  their  sheaths.  He  did  not  care 
to  read  or  talk  of  what  he  had  read,  and  there 
was  a  new  ring  of  self-assertion  in  his  voice.  I 
hardly  cared  to  remind  him  of  the  galley  when 
we  met;  but  Charlie  alluded  to  it  on  every  oc- 
casion, always  as  a  story  from  which  money  was 
to  be  made. 

"I  think  1  deserve  twenty-five  per  cent,  don't 
1,  at  least,"  he  said,  with  beautiful  frankness. 
"I  supplied  all  the  ideas,  didn't  1  ? " 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  43 

This  greediness  for  silver  was  a  new  side  ,n  his 
nature.  I  assumed  that  it  had  been  developed  in 
the  City,  where  Charlie  was  picking  up  the  curi- 
ous nasal  drawl  of  the  underbred  City  man. 

"  When  the  thing's  done  we'll  talk  about  it.  I 
can't  make  anything  of  it  at  present.  Red-haired 
or  black-haired  hero  are  equally  difficult." 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  staring  at  the  red 
coals.  "I  can't  understand  what  you  find  so 
difficult.  It's  all  as  clear  as  mud  to  me,"  he  re- 
plied. A  jet  of  gas  puffed  out  between  the  bars, 
took  light  and  whistled  softly.  "Suppose  we 
take  the  red-haired  hero's  adventures  first,  from 
the  time  that  he  came  south  to  my  galley  and 
captured  it  and  sailed  to  the  Beaches." 

I  knew  better  now  than  to  interrupt  Charlie.  I 
was  out  of  reach  of  pen  and  paper,  and  dared 
not  move  to  get  them  lest  1  should  break  the  cur- 
rent. The  gas-jet  puffed  and  whinnied,  Charlie's 
voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  he  told 
a  tale  of  the  sailing  of  an  open  galley  to  Furdur- 
strandi,  of  sunsets  on  the  open  sea,  seen  under 
the  curve  of  the  one  sail  evening  after  evening 
when  the  galley's  beak  was  notched  into  the 
centre  of  the  sinking  disc,  and  "we  sailed  by 
that  for  we  had  no  other  guide,"  quoth  Charlie. 
He  spoke  of  a  landing  on  an  island  and  explora- 
tions in  its  woods,  where  the  crew  killed  three 
men  whom  they  found  asleep  under  the  pines. 


44  Indian  Tales 

Their  ghosts,  Charhe  said,  followed  the  galley, 
swimming  and  choking  in  the  water,  and  the 
crew  cast  lots  and  threw  one  of  their  number 
overboard  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  strange  gods  whom 
they  had  offended.  Then  they  ate  sea-weed 
when  their  provisions  failed,  and  their  legs 
swelled,  and  their  leader,  the  red-haired  man, 
killed  two  rowers  who  mutinied,  and  after  a  year 
spent  among  the  woods  they  set  sail  for  their 
own  country,  and  a  wind  that  never  failed  car- 
ried them  back  so  safely  that  they  all  slept  at 
night.  This,  and  much  more  Charlie  told.  Some- 
times the  voice  fell  so  low  that  I  could  not  catch 
the  words,  though  every  nerve  was  on  the  strain. 
He  spoke  of  their  leader,  the  red-haired  man,  as 
a  pagan  speaks  of  his  God;  for  it  was  he  who 
cheered  them  and  slew  them  impartially  as  he 
thought  best  for  their  needs;  and  it  was  he  who 
steered  them  for  three  days  among  floating  ice, 
each  floe  crowded  with  strange  beasts  that  "  tried 
to  sail  with  us,"  said  Charlie,  "  and  we  beat  them 
back  with  the  handles  of  the  oars." 

The  gas-jet  went  out,  a  burned  coal  gave  way, 
and  the  fire  settled  down  with  a  tiny  crash  to  the 
bottom  of  the  grate.  Charlie  ceased  speaking, 
and  I  said  no  word. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  at  last,  shaking  his  head. 
"  I've  been  staring  at  the  fire  till  I'm  dizzy.  What 
was  I  going  to  say  ?" 


"The  Fhiest  Story  in  the  World"  45 

"Something  about  the  galley." 

"  I  remember  now.  It's  25  per  cent,  of  the 
profits,  isn't  it.?" 

"It's  anything  you  like  when  I've  done  the 
tale." 

"I  wanted  to  be  sure  of  that.  I  must  go 
now.  I've — I've  an  appointment."  And  he  left 
me. 

Had  my  eyes  not  been  held  I  might  have 
known  that  that  broken  muttering  over  the  fire 
was  the  swan-song  of  Charlie  Mears.  But  I 
thought  it  the  prelude  to  fuller  revelation.  At 
last  and  at  last  I  should  cheat  the  Lords  of  Life 
and  Death! 

When  next  Charlie  came  to  me  I  received  him 
with  rapture.  He  was  nervous  and  embarrassed, 
but  his  eyes  were  very  full  of  light,  and  his  lips 
a  little  parted. 

"I've  done  a  poem,"  he  said;  and  then, 
quickly:  "  it's  the  best  I've  ever  done.  Read  it." 
He  thrust  it  into  my  hand  and  retreated  to  the 
window. 

I  groaned  inwardly.  It  would  be  the  work  of 
half  an  hour  to  criticise — that  is  to  say  praise — 
the  poem  sufficiently  to  please  Charlie.  Then  I 
had  good  reason  to  groan,  for  Charlie,  discarding 
his  favorite  centipede  metres,  had  launched  into 
shorter  and  choppier  verse,  and  verse  with  a  mo- 
tive at  the  back  of  it.     This  is  what  I  read: 


4^  Indian  Tales 

<'The  day  is  most  fair,  the  cheery  wind 
Halloos  behind  the  hill, 
Where  he  bends  the  wood  as  seeraeth  good, 

And  the  sapling  to  his  will ! 
Riot  O  wind;  there  is  that  in  my  blood 
That  would  not  have  thee  still! 

"She  gave  me  herself,  O  Earth,  O  Sky; 
Grey  sea,  she  is  mine  alone ! 
Let  the  sullen  boulders  hear  my  cry, 
And  rejoice  tho'  they  be  but  stone ! 

"  Mine !  I  have  won  her  O  good  brown  earth, 
Make  merry  !     'Tis  hard  on  Spring ; 
Make  merry ;  my  love  is  doubly  worth 

All  worship  your  fields  can  bring  ! 
Let  the  hind  that  tills  you  feel  my  mirth 
At  the  early  harrowing." 

"Yes,  it's  the  early  harrowing,  past  a  doubt," 
I  said,  with  a  dread  at  my  heart.  Charlie  smiled, 
but  did  not  answer. 

"  Red  cloud  of  the  sunset,  tell  it  abroad ; 
I  am  victor.     Greet  me  O  Sun, 
Dominant  master  and  absolute  lord 
Over  the  soul  of  one  !  " 

"  Well  }"  said  Charlie,  looking  over  my  shoul- 
der. 

I  thought  it  far  from  well,  and  very  evil  indeed, 
when  he  silently  laid  a  photograph  on  the  paper 
— the  photograph  of  a  girl  with  a  curly  head,  and 
a  foolish  slack  mouth. 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  47 

"Isn't  it — isn't  it  wonderful?"  he  whispered, 
pink  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  wrapped  in  the  rosy 
mystery  of  first  love.  "I  didn't  know;  I  didn't 
think — it  came  like  a  thunderclap." 

"Yes.  It  comes  like  a  thunderclap.  Are  you 
very  happy,  Charlie?" 

' '  My  God — she — she  loves  me !  "  He  sat  down 
repeating  the  last  words  to  himself,  I  looked  at 
the  hairless  face,  the  narrow  shoulders  already 
bowed  by  desk-work,  and  wondered  when, 
where,  and  how  he  had  loved  in  his  past  lives. 

''What  will  your  mother  say  ?"  I  asked,  cheer- 
fully. 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  she  says." 

At  twenty  the  things  for  which  one  does  not 
care  a  damn  should,  properly,  be  many,  but  one 
must  not  include  mothers  in  the  list.  I  told  him 
this  gently;  and  he  described  Her,  even  as  Adam 
must  have  described  to  the  newly  named  beasts 
the  glory  and  tenderness  and  beauty  of  Eve. 
Incidentally  1  learned  that  She  was  a  tobacconist's 
assistant  with  a  weakness  for  pretty  dress,  and 
had  told  him  four  or  five  times  already  that  She 
had  never  been  kissed  by  a  man  before. 

Charlie  spoke  on  and  on,  and  on ;  while  I,  sepa- 
rated from  him  by  thousands  of  years,  was  consid- 
ering the  beginnings  of  things.  Now  I  understood 
why  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death  shut  the  doors 
so  carefully  behind  us.     It  is  that  we  may  not  re- 


48  Indian  Tales 

member  our  first  wooings.  Were  it  not  so,  our 
world  would  be  without  inhabitants  in  a  hundred 
years 

"Now,  about  that  galley-story,"  I  said,  still 
more  cheerfully,  in  a  pause  in  the  rush  of  the 
speech. 

Charlie  looked  up  as  though  he  had  been  hit. 
"The  galley — what  galley  ?  Good  heavens,  don't 
joke,  man!  This  is  serious!  You  don't  know 
how  serious  it  is!  " 

Grish  Chunder  was  right.  Charlie  had  tasted 
the  love  of  woman  that  kills  remembrance,  and 
the  finest  story  in  the  world  would  never  be 
written. 


WITH  THE  MAIN  GUARD 

Der  jungere  Uhlanen 
Sit  round  mit  open  mouth 
While  Breitmann  tell  dem  stdories 
Of  fightin'  in  the  South ; 
Und  gif  dem  moral  lessons, 
How  before  der  battle  pops. 
Take  a  little  prayer  to  Himmel 
Und  a  goot  long  drink  of  Schnapps. 

Hans  Breittnann'' s  Ballads. 

"  Mary,  Mother  av  Mercy,  fwhat  the  divil  pos- 
sist  us  to  take  an'  kepe  this  meiancolius  coun- 
thry  ?    Answer  me  that,  sorr," 

It  was  Mulvaney  who  was  speaking.  The 
time  was  one  o'clock  of  a  stifling  June  night,  and 
the  place  was  the  main  gate  of  Fort  Amara,  most 
desolate  and  least  desirable  of  all  fortresses  in 
India.  What  I  was  doing  there  at  that  hour  is  a 
question  which  only  concerns  M'Grath  the  Ser- 
geant of  the  Guard,  and  the  men  on  the  gate. 

"Slape,"said  Mulvaney,  "is  a  shuparfluous  ne- 
cessity. This  gyard'll  shtay  lively  till  relieved." 
He  himself  was  stripped  to  the  waist;  Learoyd  on 
the  next  bedstead  was  dripping  from  the  skinful 
of  water  which  Ortheris,  clad  only  in  white 
trousers,  had  just  sluiced  over  his  shoulders;  and 
49 


50  Indian  Tales 

a  fourth  private  was  muttering  uneasily  as  he 
dozed  open-mouthed  in  the  glare  of  the  great 
guard-lantern.  The  heat  under  the  bricked  arch- 
way was  terrifying. 

' •  The  worrst  night  that  i ver  I  remimber.  Eyah ! 
Is  all  Hell  loose  this  tide?"  said  Mulvaney.  A 
puff  of  burning  wind  lashed  through  the  wicket- 
gate  like  a  wave  of  the  sea,  and  Ortheris  swore. 

"Are  ye  more  heasy,  Jock,?"  he  said  to  Lea- 
royd.  "Put  yer  'ead  between  your  legs.  It'll 
go  orf  in  a  minute." 

"Ah  don't  care.  Ah  would  not  care,  but  ma 
heart  is  plaayin'  tivvy-tivvy  on  ma  ribs.  Let  me 
die!  Oh,  leave  me  die!"  groaned  the  huge 
Yorkshireman,  who  was  feeling  the  heat  acutely, 
being  of  fleshly  build. 

The  sleeper  under  the  lantern  roused  for  a  mo- 
ment and  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. — "Die 
and  be  damned  then!"  he  said,  "/'m  damned 
and  I  can't  die!" 

"Who's  that.?"  1  whispered,  for  the  voice  was 
new  to  me. 

"Gentleman  born,"  said  Mulvaney;  "Corp'ril 
wan  year,  Sargint  nex'.  Red-hot  on  his  emis- 
sion, but  dhrinks  like  a  fish.  He'll  be  gone  be- 
fore the  cowld  weather's  here.     So!  " 

He  slipped  his  boot,  and  with  the  naked  toe 
just  touched  the  trigger  of  his  Martini.  Ortheris 
misunderstood  the  movement,  and  the  next  in- 


]Vith  the  Main  Guard  51 

stant  the  Irishman's  rifle  was  dashed  aside,  while 
Ortheris  stood  before  him,  his  eyes  blazing  with 
reproof. 

"You!"  said  Ortheris.  " My  Gawd, ji^o^ .'  If 
it  was  you,  wot  would  we  do  }  " 

"Kape  quiet,  little  man,"  said  Mulvaney,  put- 
ting him  aside,  but  very  gently;  "'tis  not  me, 
nor  will  ut  be  me  whoiie  Dina  Shadd's  here.  I 
was  but  showin'  something." 

Learoyd,  bowed  on  his  bedstead,  groaned,  and 
the  gentleman-ranker  sighed  in  his  sleep.  Or- 
theris took  Mulvaney's  tendered  pouch,  and  we 
three  smoked  gravely  for  a  space  while  the  dust- 
devils  danced  on  the  glacis  and  scoured  the  red- 
hot  plain. 

"  Pop  ?  "  said  Ortheris,  wiping  his  forehead. 

"Don't  tantalize  wid  talkin'  av  dhrink,  or  I'll 
shtuff  you  into  your  own  breech-block  an' — fire  _•- . 

you  off  !  "  grunted  Mulvaney.  tr' 

Ortheris  chuckled,  and  from  a  niche  in  the  ve- 
randa produced  six  bottles  of  gingerale. 

"Where  did  ye  get  ut,  ye  Machiavel?"  said 
Mulvaney.     "  'Tis  no  bazar  pop." 

"'Ow  do  Hi  know  wot  the  Orf'cers  drink?" 
answered  Ortheris.     "  Arst  the  mess-man." 

"  Ye'll  have  a  Disthrict  Coort-martial  settin'  on 
ye  yet,  me  son,"  said  Mulvaney,  "but" — he 
opened  a  bottle — "  I  will  not  report  ye  this  time. 
Fwhat's  in  the  mess-kid  is  mint  for  the  belly,  as 


52  Indian  Tales 

they  say,  'specially  whin  that  mate  is  dhrink. 
Here's  luck!  A  bloody  war  or  a — no,  we've  got 
the  sickly  season.  War,  thin!" — he  waved  the 
innocent  "  pop  "  to  the  four  quarters  of  Heaven. 
"Bloody  war!  North,  East,  South,  an'  West! 
Jock,  ye  quakin'  hayrick,  come  an'  dhrink." 

But  Learoyd,  half  mad  v/ith  the  fear  of  death 
presaged  in  the  swelling  veins  of  his  neck,  was 
pegging  his  Maker  to  strike  him  dead,  and  fight- 
ing for  more  air  between  his  prayers.  A  second 
time  Ortheris  drenched  the  quivering  body  with 
water,  and  the  giant  revived. 

"An'  Ah  divn't  see  thot  a  mon  is  i'  fettle  for 
gooin'  on  to  live;  an'  Ah  divn't  see  thot  there  is 
owt  for  t'  livin'  for.  Hear  now,  lads!  Ah'm 
tired — tired.  There's  nobbut  watter  i'  ma  bones. 
Let  me  die! " 

The  hollow  of  the  arch  gave  back  Learoyd's 
broken  whisper  in  a  bass  boom.  Mulvaney 
looked  at  me  hopelessly,  but  I  remembered  how 
the  madness  of  despair  had  once  fallen  upon 
Ortheris,  that  weary,  weary  afternoon  in  the 
banks  of  the  Khemi  River,  and  how  it  had  been 
exorcised  by  the  skilful  magician  Mulvaney. 

"Talk,  Terence!"  I  said,  "or  we  shall  have 
Learoyd  slinging  loose,  and  hell  be  worse  than 
Ortheris  was.  Talk!  He'll  answer  to  your 
voice." 

Almost  before  Ortheris  had  deftly  thrown  all 


JVtth  the  Main  Guard  53 

the  rifles  of  the  Guard  on  Mulvaney's  bedstead, 
the  Irishman's  voice  was  uplifted  as  that  of  one 
in  the  middle  of  a  story,  and,  turning  to  me,  he 
said  — 

"In  barricks  or  out  of  it,  as  you  say,  sorr,  an 
Oirish  rig'mint  is  the  divil  an'  more.  'Tis  only 
fit  for  a  young  man  wid  eddicated  flstesses.  Oh 
the  crame  av  disruption  is  an  Oirish  rig'mint,  an' 
rippin',  tearin',  ragin'  scattherers  in  the  field  av 
war!  My  first  rig'mint  was  Oirish — Faynians 
an'  rebils  to  the  heart  av  their  miarrow  was  they, 
an'  so  they  fought  for  the  Widdy  betther  than 
most,  bein'  contrairy — Oirish,  They  was  the 
Black  Tyrone.     You've  heard  av  thim,  sorr.?" 

Heard  of  them!  I  knew  the  Black  Tyrone  for 
the  choicest  collection  of  unmitigated  black- 
guards, dog-stealers,  robbers  of  hen-roosts,  as- 
saulters of  innocent  citizens,  and  recklessly  dar- 
ing heroes  in  the  Army  List.  Half  Europe  and 
half  Asia  has  had  cause  to  know  the  Black 
Tyrone — good  luck  be  with  their  tattered  Colors 
as  Glory  has  ever  been ! 

"They  was  hot  pickils  an'  ginger!  I  cut  a 
man's  head  tu  deep  wid  my  belt  in  the  days  av 
my  youth,  an',  afther  some  circumstances  which 
I  will  oblitherate,  I  came  to  the  Ould  Rig'mint, 
bearin'  the  character  av  a  man  wid  hands  an' 
feet.  But,  as  1  was  goin'  to  tell  you,  I  fell  acrost 
the  Black  Tyrone  agin  wan  day  whin  we  wanted 


54  Indian  Tales 

thim  powerful  bad.  Orth'ris,  me  son,  fwhat 
was  the  name  av  that  place  where  they  sint  wan 
comp'ny  av  us  an'  wan  av  the  Tyrone  roun'  a  hill 
an'  down  again,  all  for  to  tache  the  Paythans 
something  they'd  niver  learned  before?  Afther 
Ghuzni  'twas." 

"Don't  know  what  the  bloomin'  Paythans 
called  it.  We  call  it  Silver's  Theayter.  You 
know  that,  sure! " 

"  Silver's  Theatre — so  'twas.  A  gut  betune 
two  hills,  as  black  as  a  bucket,  an'  as  thin  as  a 
girl's  waist.  There  was  over-many  Paythans  for 
our  convaynience  in  the  gut,  an'  begad  they 
called  thimselves  a  Reserve — bein'  impident  by 
natur!  Our  Scotchies  an'  lashins  av  Gurkys  was 
poundin'  into  some  Paythan  rig'mints,  1  think 
'twas.  Scotchies  an'  Gurkys  are  twins  bekaze 
they're  so  onlike,  an'  they  get  dhrunk  together 
whin  God  plazes.  As  I  was  sayin',  they  sint 
wan  comp'ny  av  the  Ould  an  wan  av  the  Tyrone 
to  double  up  the  hill  an'  clane  out  the  Paythan 
Reserve.  Orf'cers  was  scarce  in  thim  days, 
fwhat  with  dysintry  an'  not  takin'  care  av  thim- 
selves, an'  we  was  sint  out  wid  only  wan  orf'cer 
for  the  comp'ny;  but  he  was  a  Man  that  had  his 
feet  beneath  him,  an'  all  his  teeth  in  their  sock- 
ats." 

"  Who  was  he  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Captain  O'Neil— Old  Crook — Cruikna-bulleen 


IVtth  the  Main  Guard  55 

— him  that  I  tould  ye  that  tale  av  whin  he  was  in 
Burma.'  Hah!  He  was  a  Man.  The  Tyrone 
tuk  a  Httle  orf'cer  bhoy,  but  divil  a  bit  was  he  in 
command,  as  I'll  dimonstrate  presintly.  We  an' 
they  came  over  the  brow  av  the  hill,  wan  on 
each  side  av  the  gut,  an'  there  was  that  ondacint 
Reserve  waitin'  down  below  like  rats  in  a  pit. 

" '  Howld  on,  men,' sez  Crook,  who  tuk  a 
mother's  care  av  us  always.  '  Rowl  some  rocks 
on  thim  by  way  av  visitin'-kyards.'  We  hadn't 
rowled  more  than  twinty  bowlders,  an'  the 
Paythans  was  beginnin'  to  swear  tremenjus, 
whin  the  little  orf'cer  bhoy  av  the  Tyrone 
shqueaks  out  acrost  the  valley: — '  Fwhat  the 
devil  an'  all  are  you  doin',  shpoilin'  the  fun  for 
my  men  }    Do  ye  not  see  they'll  stand  ?' 

"  *  Faith,  that's  a  rare  pluckt  wan! '  sez  Crook. 
*  Niver  mind  the  rocks,  men.  Come  along  down 
an'  take  tay  wid  thim! ' 

"  'There's  damned  little  sugar  in  ut!'  sez  my 
rear-rank  man;  but  Crook  heard. 

"'Have  ye  not  all  got  spoons.^'  he  sez, 
laughin',  an'  down  we  wint  as  fast  as  we  cud. 
Learoyd  bein'  sick  at  the  Base,  he,  av  coorse, 
was  not  there." 

"  Thot's  a  lie! "  said  Learoyd,  dragging  his  bed- 
stead nearer.     "  Ah  gotten  thot  theer,  an'  you 

•  Now  first  of  the  foemen  of  Boh  Da  Thone 
Was  Captain  O'Neil  of  the  Black  Tyrone. 

The  Ballad  of  Boh  Da  Thone. 


^. 


56  Indian  Tales 

knaw  it,  Mulvaney."  He  threw  up  his  arms, 
and  from  the  right  arm-pit  ran,  diagonally 
through  the  fell  of  his  chest,  a  thin  white  line 
terminating  near  the  fourth  left  rib. 

**My  mind's  goin',"  said  Mulvaney,  the  un- 
abashed. "  Ye  were  there.  Fwhat  I  was  thinkin' 
of!  'Twas  another  man,  av  coorse.  Well,  you'll 
remimber  thin,  Jock,  how  we  an'  the  Tyrone 
met  wid  a  bang  at  the  bottom  an'  got  jammed 
past  all  movin'  among  the  Paythans." 

"Ow!  It  was  a  tight 'ole.  I  was  squeezed 
till  I  thought  I'd  bloomin'  well  bust,"  said  Orthe- 
ris,  rubbing  his  stomach  meditatively. 

"  'Twas  no  place  for  a  little  man,  but  wan  lit- 
tle man  " — Mulvaney  put  his  hand  on  Ortheris's 
shoulder — "saved  the  life  av  me.  There  we 
shtuck,  for  divil  a  bit  did  the  Paythans  flinch, 
an'  divil  a  bit  dare  we;  our  business  bein'  to 
clear  'em  out.  An'  the  most  exthryordinar'  thing 
av  all  was  that  we  an'  they  just  rushed  into  each 
other's  arrums,  an'  there  was  no  firing  for  a  long 
time.  Nothin'  but  knife  an'  bay'nit  when  we 
cud  get  our  hands  free:  an'  that  was  not  often. 
We  was  breast-on  to  thim,  an'  the  Tyrone  was 
yelpin'  behind  av  us  in  a  way  I  didn't  see  the 
lean  av  at  first.  But  1  knew  later,  an'  so  did  the 
Paythans. 

'"Knee  to  knee!'  sings  out  Crook,  wid  a 
laugh  whin  the  rush  av  our  comin'  into  the  gut 


With  the  Main  Guard  57 

shtopped,  an'  he  was  huggin'  a  hairy  great 
Paythan,  neither  bein'  able  to  do  anything  to  the 
other,  tho'  both  was  wishful. 

"  '  Breast  to  breast! '  he  sez,  as  the  Tyrone  was 
pushin'  us  forward  closer  an'  closer. 

"  '  An'  hand  over  back! '  sez  a  Sargint  that  was 
behin'.  I  saw  a  sword  lick  out  past  Crook's  ear, 
an'  the  Paythan  was  tuk  in  the  apple  av  his  throat 
like  a  pig  at  Dromeen  fair. 

"  'Thank  ye,  Brother  Inner  Guard,'  sez  Crook, 
cool  as  a  cucumber  widout  salt.  '  I  wanted  that 
room.'  An'  he  wint  forward  by  the  thickness 
av  a  man's  body,  havin'  turned  the  Paythan  un- 
dher  him.  The  man  bit  the  heel  off  Crook's  boot 
in  his  death-bite. 

"'Push,  men!' sez  Crook.  'Push,  ye  paper- 
backed beggars!'  he  sez.  'Am  I  to  pull  ye 
through?'  So  we  pushed,  an'  we  kicked,  an' 
we  swung,  an'  we  swore,  an'  the  grass  bein' 
slippery,  our  heels  wouldn't  bite,  an'  God  help 
the  front-rank  man  that  wint  down  that  day! " 

"  'Ave  you  ever  bin  in  the  Pit  hentrance  o'  the 
Vic.  on  a  thick  night } "  interrupted  Ortheris. 
"  It  was  worse  nor  that,  for  they  was  goin'  one 
way  an'  we  wouldn't  'ave  it.  Leastaways,  I 
'adn't  much  to  say." 

"Faith,  me  son,  ye  said  ut,  thin.  I  kep'  the 
little  man  betune  my  knees  as  long  as  1  cud,  but 
he  was  pokin'  roun'  wid  his  bay'nit,  blindin'  an' 


5^  Indian  Tales 

stiffin'  feroshus.  The  devil  of  a  man  is  Orth'ris 
in  a  ruction — aren't  ye  ?  "  said  Mulvaney. 

"Don't  make  game!  "  said  the  Cockney.  "I 
knowed  I  wasn't  no  good  then,  but  I  guv  'em 
compot  from  the  lef  flank  when  we  opened 
out.  No!"  he  said,  bringing  down  his  hand 
with  a  thump  on  the  bedstead,  "a  bay'nit  ain't 
no  good  to  a  little  man — might  as  well  'ave  a 
bloomin'  fishin'-rod!  I  'ate  a  clawin',  maulin' 
mess,  but  gimme  a  breech  that's  wore  out  a  bit, 
an'  hamminition  one  year  in  store,  to  let  the 
powder  kiss  the  bullet,  an'  put  me  somewheres 
where  I  ain't  trod  on  by  'ulkin  swine  like  you, 
an'  s'elp  me  Gawd,  I  could  bowl  you  over  five 
times  outer  seven  at  height  'undred.  V/ould  yer 
try,  you  lumberin'  Hirishman." 

"No,  ye  wasp.  I've  seen  ye  do  ut.  I  say 
there's  nothin'  better  than  the  bay'nit,  wid  a  long 
reach,  a  double  twist  av  ye  can,  an'  a  slow  re- 
cover." 

"Dom  the  bay'nit,"  said  Learoyd,  who  had 
been  listening  intently.  "Look  a-here!"  He 
picked  up  a  rifle  an  inch  below  the  foresight 
with  an  underhand  action,  and  used  it  exactly  as 
a  man  would  use  a  dagger. 

"Sitha,"  said  he,  softly,  "thot's  better  than 
owt,  for  a  mon  can  bash  t'  faace  wi'  thot,  an',  if 
he  divn't,  he  can  breeak  t'  forearm  o'  t'  gaard, 
Tis  not  i'  t'  books,  though.     Gie  me  t'  butt." 


IVtth  the  Main  Guard  59 

"  Each  does  ut  his  own  way,  like  makin'  love," 
said  Mulvaney,  quietly;  " the  butt  or  the  bay'nit 
or  the  bullet  accordin'  to  the  natur'  av  the  man. 
Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  we  shtuck  there  breathin' 
in  each  other's  faces  and  swearin'  powerful; 
Orth'ris  cursin'  the  mother  that  bore  him  bekaze 
he  was  not  three  inches  taller. 

"  Prisintly  he  sez: — 'Duck,  ye  lump,  an'  I  can 
get  at  a  man  over  your  shouldher! ' 

"'You'll  blow  me  head  off,'  I  sez,  throwin' 
my  arm  clear;  'go  through  under  my  arm-pit, 
ye  bloodthirsty  little  scutt,'  sez  I,  'but  don't 
shtick  me  or  I'll  wring  your  ears  round.' 

"  Fwhat  was  ut  ye  gave  the  Paythan  man  for- 
ninst  me,  him  that  cut  at  me  whin  1  cudn't  move 
hand  or  foot }    Hot  or  cowld  was  ut  ?  " 

"Cold,"  said  Ortheris,  "  up  an'  under  the  rib- 
jint.     'E  come  down  flat.     Best  for  you  'e  did." 

"Thrue,  my  son!  This  jam  thing  that  I'm 
talkin'  about  lasted  for  five  minutes  good,  an' 
thin  we  got  our  arms  clear  an'  wint  in.  1  misre- 
mimber  exactly  fwhat  1  did,  but  I  didn't  want 
Dinah  to  be  a  widdy  at  the  Depot.  Thin,  after 
some  promishkuous  hackin'  we  shtuck  again,  an' 
the  Tyrone  behin'  was  caliin'  us  dogs  an'  cowards 
an'  all  manner  av  names;  we  barrin'  their  way. 

"  '  Fwhat  ails  the  Tyrone  ?'  thinks  I;  'they've 
the  makin's  av  a  most  convanient  fight  here.' 

"  A  man  behind  me  sez  beseechful  an'  in  '» 


6o  Indian  Tales 

whisper : — '  Let  me  get  at  thim !  For  the  Love  av 
Mary  give  me  room  beside  ye,  ye  tall  man! " 

"'An'  who  are  you  that's  so  anxious  to  be 
kilt  ? '  sez  1,  widout  turnin'  my  head,  for  the  long 
knives  was  dancin'  in  front  like  the  sun  on  Done- 
gal Bay  whin  ut's  rough. 

"'We've  seen  our  dead,'  he  sez,  squeezin' 
into  me;  '  our  dead  that  was  men  two  days  gone! 
An'  me  that  was  his  cousin  by  blood  could  not 
bring  Tim  Coulan  off!  Let  me  get  on,'  he  sez, 
'  let  me  get  to  thim  or  I'll  run  ye  through  the 
back!' 

"'My  troth,'  thinks  I,  'if  the  Tyrone  have 
seen  their  dead,  God  help  the  Paythans  this  day ! ' 
An'  thin  I  knew  why  the  Oirish  was  ragin'  be- 
hind us  as  they  was. 

"  I  gave  room  to  the  man,  an'  he  ran  forward 
wid  the  Haymaker's  Lift  on  his  bay'nit  an'  swung 
a  Paythan  clear  off  his  feet  by  the  belly-band  av 
the  brute,  an'  the  iron  bruk  at  the  lockin'-ring. 

"  'Tim  Coulan  '11  slape  easy  to-night,'  sez  he, 
wid  a  grin;  an'  the  next  minut  his  head  was  in 
two  halves  and  he  wint  down  grinnin'  by  sec- 
tions. 

"The  Tyrone  was  pushin'  an'  pushin'  in,  an' 
our  men  was  swearin'  at  thim,  an'  Crook  was 
workin'  away  in  front  av  us  all,  his  sword-arm 
swingin'  like  a  pump-handle  an'  his  revolver 
spittin'  like  a  cat.     But  the  strange  thing  av  ut 


]Vith  the  Main  Guard  6i 


was  the.  quiet  that  lay  upon,  'Twas  like  a  fight 
in  a  drame — except  for  thim  that  was  dead. 

"  Whin  1  gave  room  to  the  Oirishman  1  was 
expinded  an'  forlorn  in  my  inside.  'Tis  a  way  I 
have,  savin'  your  presince,  sorr,  in  action.  '  Let 
me  out,  bhoys,'  sez  I,  backin'  in  among  thim. 
'I'm  goin' to  be  onwell!'  Faith  they  gave  me 
room  at  the  wurrud,  though  they  would  not  ha' 
given  room  for  all  Hell  wid  the  chill  off.  When 
I  got  clear,  I  was,  savin'  your  presince,  sorr,  out- 
ragis  sick  bekaze  1  had  dhrunk  heavy  that  day. 

"Well  an'  far  out  av  harm  was  a  Sargint  av 
the  Tyrone  sittin'  on  the  little  orf'cer  bhoy  who 
had  stopped  Crook  from  rowlin'  the  rocks.  Oh, 
he  was  a  beautiful  bhoy,  an'  the  long  black 
curses  was  slidin'  out  av  his  innocint  mouth  like 
mornin'-jew  from  a  rose! 

"  '  Fwhat  have  you  got  there  .^'  sez  I  to  the 
Sargint. 

"'Wan  av  Her  Majesty's  bantams  wid  his 
spurs  up,'  sez  he.  'He's  goin'  to  Coort-martial 
me.' 

"'Let  me  go!'  sez  the  little  orf'cer  bhoy. 
'Let  me  go  and  command  my  men!'  manin' 
thereby  the  Black  Tyrone  which  was  beyond  any 
command — ay,  even  av  they  had  made  the  Divil 
a  Field  orf'cer. 

"  '  His  father  howlds  my  mother's  cow-feed  in 
Clonmel,'  sez  the  man  that  was  sittin'  on  him. 


62  Indian  Tales 

'Will  I  go  back  to  his  mother  an'  tell  her  that 
I've  let  him  throw  himself  away  ?  Lie  still,  ye 
little  pinch  av  dynamite,  an'  Coort-martial  me 
aftherward.' 

"  '  Good,' sez  I;  ''tis  the  likes  av  him  makes 
the  likes  av  the  Commandher-in-Chief,  but  we 
must  presarve  thim.  Fwhat  d'you  want  to  do, 
sorr  ? '  sez  I,  very  politeful. 

"'Kill  the  beggars — kill  the  beggars!'  he 
shqueaks;  his  big  blue  eyes  brimmin'  wid  tears. 

"'An'  how'll  ye  do  that?'  sez  I.  'You've 
shquibbed  off  your  revolver  like  a  child  wid  a 
cracker;  you  can  make  no  play  wid  that  fine 
large  sword  av  yours;  an'  your  hand's  shakin' 
like  an  asp  on  a  leaf.     Lie  still  an'  grow,'  sez  L 

"  '  Get  back  to  your  comp'ny,'  sez  he;  'you're 
insolint! ' 

'"All  in  good  time,'  sez  I,  'but  I'll  have  a 
dhrink  first.' 

"Just  thin  Crook  comes  up,  blue  an'  white  all 
over  where  he  wasn't  red. 

"'Wather!'  sez  he;  'I'm  dead  wid  drouth! 
Oh,  but  it's  a  gran'  day!' 

"  He  dhrank  half  a  skinful,  and  the  rest  he  tilts 
into  his  chest,  an'  it  fair  hissed  on  the  hairy  hide 
av  him.  He  sees  the  little  orf'cer  bhoy  undher 
the  Sargint. 

"  '  Fwhat's  yonder  }  '  sez  he. 

"  'Mutiny,  sorr,'  sez  the  Sargint,  an'  the  orf'- 


IVith  the  Main  Guard  63 

cer  bhoy  begins  pleadin'  pitiful  to  Crook  to  be 
let  go:  but  divil  a  bit  wud  Crook  budge. 

'"Kape  him  there,'  he  sez,  "tis  no  child's 
work  this  day.  By  the  same  token,'  sez  he,  '  I'll 
confishcate  that  iligant  nickel-plated  scent-sprink- 
ler av  yours,  for  my  own  has  been  vomitin'  dish- 
graceful!  ' 

"The  fork  av  his  hand  was  black  wid  the 
backspit  av  the  machine.  vSo  he  tuk  the  orf'cer 
bhoy's  revolver.  Ye  may  look,  sorr,  but,  by  my 
faith,  there's  a  dale  more  done  in  the  field  than 
iver  gets  into  Field  Ordhers  ! 

"  '  Come  on,  Mulvaney,'  sez  Crook;  '  is  this  a 
Coort-martial "? '  The  two  av  us  wint  back  to- 
gether into  the  mess  an'  the  Paythans  were  still 
standin'  up.  They  was  not  too  impart'nint 
though,  for  the  Tyrone  was  callin'  wan  to  an- 
other to  remimber  Tim  Coulan. 

"  Crook  stopped  outside  av  the  strife  an'  looked 
anxious,  his  eyes  rowlin'  roun'. 

"  '  Fwhat  is  ut,  sorr?'  sez  I;  'can  I  get  ye 
anything  ? ' 

"  *  Where's  a  bugler  ?'  sez  he. 

"  1  wint  into  the  crowd — our  men  was 
dhrawin'  breath  behin'  the  Tyrone  who  was 
fightin'  like  sowls  in  tormint — an'  prisintly  I  came 
acrost  little  Frehan,  our  bugler  bhoy,  pokin' 
roun'  among  the  best  wid  a  rifle  an'  bay'nit. 

" '  is  amusin'  yoursilf  fwhat  you're  paid  for. 


64  Indian  Tales 

ye  limb?'  sez  I,  catchin'  him  by  the  scruff. 
'Come  out  av  that  an'  attind  to  your  duty,'  I  sez; 
but  the  bhoy  was  not  pleased. 

"  *  I've  got  wan,'  sez  he,  grinnin',  'big  as  you, 
Mulvaney,  an'  fair  half  as  ugly.  Let  me  go  get 
another.' 

"I  was  dishpleased  at  the  personability  av  that 
remark,  so  I  tucks  him  under  my  arm  an'  carries 
him  to  Crook  who  was  watchin'  how  the  fight 
wint.  Crook  cuffs  him  till  the  bhoy  cries,  an' 
thin  sez  nothm'  for  a  whoile. 

"The  Paythans  began  to  flicker  onaisy,  an'  our 
men  roared.  'Opin  ordher!  Double!'  sez 
Crook.  '  Blow,  child,  blow  for  the  honor  av  the 
British  Arrmy!' 

"That  bhoy  blew  like  a  typhoon,  an'  the 
Tyrone  an'  we  opined  out  as  the  Paythans  broke, 
an'  I  saw  that  fwhat  had  gone  before  wud  be 
kissin'  an'  huggin'  to  fwhat  was  to  come.  We'd 
dhruv  thim  into  a  broad  part  av  the  gut  whin 
they  gave,  an'  thin  we  opined  out  an'  fair  danced 
down  the  valley,  dhrivin'  thim  before  us.  Oh, 
'twas  lovely,  an'  stiddy,  too!  There  was  the 
Sargints  on  the  flanks  av  what  was  left  av  us, 
kapin'  touch,  an'  the  fire  was  runnin'  from  flank 
to  flank,  an'  the  Paythans  was  dhroppin'.  We 
opined  out  wid  the  widenin'  av  the  valley,  an' 
whin  the  valley  narrowed  we  closed  again  like 
the  shtjcks  on  a  ladv's  fan,  an'  at  the  far  ind  av 


JVtth  the  Main  Guard  65 

the  gut  where  they  thried  to  stand,  we  fair  blew 
them  off  their  feet,  for  we  had  expinded  very 
little  ammunition  by  reason  av  the  knife  work." 

"Hi  used  thirty  rounds  goin'  down  that  val- 
ley," said  Ortheris,  "an'  it  was  gentleman's 
work.  Might  'a'  done  it  in  a  white  'andkerchief 
an'  pink  silk  stockin's,  that  part.  Hi  was  on  in 
that  piece." 

"  You  could  ha'  heard  the  Tyrone  yellin'  a  mile 
away,"  said  Mulvaney,  "an'  'twas  all  their  Sar- 
gints  cud  do  to  get  thim  off.  They  was  mad — 
mad — mad!  Crook  sits  down  in  the  quiet  that 
fell  whin  we  had  gone  down  the  valley,  an'  cov- 
ers his  face  wid  his  hands.  Prisintly  we  all  came 
back  again  accordin'  to  our  natures  and  dispo- 
sishins,  for  they,  mark  you,  show  through  the 
hide  av  a  man  in  that  hour. 

"'Bhoys!  bhoys!'  sez  Crook  to  himself.  *I 
misdoubt  we  could  ha'  engaged  at  long  range  an' 
saved  betther  men  than  me.'  He  looked  at  our 
dead  an'  said  no  more. 

"'Captain  dear,'  sez  a  man  av  the  Tyrone, 
comin'  up  wid  his  mouth  bigger  than  iver  his 
mother  kissed  ut,  spittin'  blood  like  a  whale; 
'Captain  dear,'  sez  he,  'if  wan  or  two  in  the 
shtalls  have  been  discommoded,  the  gallery  have 
enjoyed  the  performinces  av  a  Roshus.' 

"Thin  I  knew  that  man  for  the  Dublin  dock- 
rat  he  was — wan  av  the  bhovs  that  made  the 


66  Indian    Tales 

lessee  av  Silver's  Theatre  grey  before  his  time 
wid  tearin'  out  the  bowils  av  the  benches  an' 
t'rowin'  thim  into  the  pit.  So  I  passed  the 
wurrud  that  I  knew  when  1  was  in  the  Tyrone  an' 
we  lay  in  Dublin.  '  1  don't  know  who  'twas,'  I 
whispers,  'an'  1  dont  care,  but  anyways  I'll 
knock  the  face  av  you,  Tim  Kelly.' 

"'Eyah!'  sez  the  man,  'was  you  there  too? 
We'll  call  ut  Silver's  Theatre.'  Half  the  Tyrone, 
knowin'  the  ould  place,  tuk  ut  up:  so  we  called 
ut  Silver's  Theatre. 

"The  little  orf'cer  bhoy  av  the  Tyrone  was 
thremblin'  an'  cryin'.  He  had  no  heart  for  the 
Coort-martials  that  he  talked  so  big  upon.  '  Ye'll 
do  well  later,'  sez  Crook,  very  quiet,  'for  not 
bein'  allowed  to  kill  yourself  for  amusemint.' 

"  '  I'm  a  dishgraced  man! '  sez  the  little  orf'cer 
bhoy. 

"  'Put  me  undher  arrest,  sorr,  if  you  will,  but, 
by  my  sowl,  I'd  do  ut  again  sooner  than  face 
your  mother  wid  you  dead,'  sez  the  Sargint  that 
had  sat  on  his  head,  standin'  to  attention  an'  sa- 
lutin'.  But  the  young  wan  only  cried  as  tho'  his 
little  heart  was  breakin'. 

"Thin  another  man  av  the  Tyrone  came  up, 
wid  the  fog  av  fightin'  on  him." 

"The  what,  Mulvaney?" 

"Fog  av  fightin'.  You  know,  sorr,  that,  like 
makin'  love,  ut  takes  each  man  diff'rint.     Now  I 


IVtth  the  Main  Guard  67 

can't  help  bein'  powerful  sick  whin  I'm  in  action. 
Orth'ris,  here,  niver  stops  swearin'  from  ind  to 
ind,  an'  the  only  time  that  Learoyd  opins  his 
mouth  to  sing  is  whin  he  is  messin'  wid  other 
people's  heads;  for  he's  a  dhirty  fighter  is  Jock. 
Recruities  sometime  cry,  an'  sometime  they  don't 
know  fwhat  they  do,  an'  sometime  they  are  all 
for  cuttin'  throats  an'  such  like  dirtiness;  but 
some  men  get  heavy-dead-dhrunk  on  the  fightin'. 
This  man  was.  He  was  staggerin',  an'  his  eyes 
were  half  shut,  an'  we  cud  hear  him  dhraw 
breath  twinty  yards  away.  He  sees  the  little 
orfcer  bhoy,  an'  comes  up,  talkin'  thick  an' 
drowsy  to  himsilf.  'Blood  the  young  whelp!' 
he  sez;  'blood  the  young  whelp;'  an'  wid  that 
he  threw  up  his  arms,  shpun  roun',  an'  dropped 
at  our  feet,  dead  as  a  Paythan,  an'  th^re  was  niver 
sign  or  scratch  on  him.  They  said  'twas  his 
heart  was  rotten,  but  oh,  'twas  a  quare  thing  to 
see! 

"Thin  we  wint  to  bury  our  dead,  for  we  wud 
not  lave  thim  to  the  Paythans,  an'  in  movin' 
among  the  haythen  we  nearly  lost  that  little 
orfcer  bhoy.  He  was  for  givin'  wan  divil 
wather  and  layin'  him  aisy  against  a  rock.  '  Be 
careful,  sorr,'  sez  1;  '  a  wounded  Paythan's  worse 
than  a  live  wan.'  My  troth,  before  the  words 
was  out  of  my  mouth,  the  man  on  the  ground 
^res  at  the  orfcer  bhoy  lanin'  over  him,  an'  1  saw 


68  Indian  Tales 

the  helmit  fly.  I  dropped  the  butt  on  the  face  av 
the  man  an'  tuk  his  pistol.  The  httle  orf'cer 
bhoy  turned  very  white,  for  the  hair  av  half  his 
head  was  singed  away. 

"  '  1  tould  you  so,  sorr! '  sez  I;  an',  afther  that, 
whin  he  wanted  to  help  a  Paythan  1  stud  wid  the 
muzzle  contagious  to  the  ear.  They  dare  not  do 
anythin'  but  curse.  The  Tyrone  was  growlin' 
like  dogs  over  a  bone  that  had  been  taken  away 
too  soon,  for  they  had  seen  their  dead  an'  they 
wanted  to  kill  ivry  sowl  on  the  ground.  Crook 
tould  thim  that  he'd  blow  the  hide  off  any  man 
that  misconducted  himself;  but,  seeing  that  ut 
was  the  first  time  the  Tyrone  had  iver  seen  their 
dead,  I  do  not  wondher  they  were  on  the  sharp. 
'Tis  a  shameful  sight!  Whin  I  first  saw  ut  I  wud 
niver  ha'  given  quarter  to  any  man  north  of  the 
Khaibar — no,  nor  woman  either,  for  the  women 
used  to  come  out  afther  dhark — Auggrh! 

"  Well,  evenshually  we  buried  our  dead  an' 
tuk  away  our  wounded,  an'  come  over  the  brow 
av  the  hills  to  see  the  Scotchies  an'  the  Gurkys 
taking  tay  with  the  Paythans  in  bucketsfuls.  We 
were  a  gang  av  dissolute  ruffians,  for  the  blood 
had  caked  the  dust,  an'  the  sweat  had  cut  the 
cake,  an'  our  bay'nits  was  hangin'  like  butchers' 
steels  betune  ur  legs,  an'  most  av  us  were  marked 
one  way  or  another. 

"A  Staff  Orf'cer  man,  clean  as  a  new  rifle. 


IVtth  the  Main  Guard  69 

rides  up  an'  sez:  'What  damned  scarecrows  are 
you  ? ' 

"'A  comp'ny  av  Her  Majesty's  Black  Tyrone 
an'  wan  av  the  Ould  Rig'mint,'  sez  Crook  very 
quiet,  givin'  our  visitors  the  flure  as  'twas. 

"'Oh!'  sez  the  Staff  Orf'cer;  'did  you  dis- 
lodge that  Reserve  ? ' 

"  'No!'  sez  Crook,  an'  the  Tyrone  laughed. 

"  '  Thin  fwhat  the  divil  have  ye  done  ? ' 

"  '  Disthroyed  ut,'  sez  Crook,  an'  he  took  us  on, 
but  not  before  Toomey  that  was  in  the  Tyrone 
sez  aloud,  his  voice  somewhere  in  his  stummick: 
'  Fwhat  in  the  name  av  misfortune  does  this  par- 
rit  widout  a  tail  mane  by  shtoppin'  the  road  av 
his  betthers.?' 

"The  Staff  Orf'cer  wint  blue,  an'  Tcomey 
makes  him  pink  by  changin'  to  the  voice  av  a 
minowderin'  woman  an'  sayin':  'Come  an'  kiss 
me.  Major  dear,  for  me  husband's  at  the  wars  an' 
I'm  all  alone  at  the  Depot.' 

"The  Staff  Orf'cer  wint  away,  an'  I  cud  see 
Crook's  shoulthers  shakin'. 

"His  Corp'ril  checks  Toomey.  'Lave  me 
alone,'  sez  Toomey,  widout  a  wink.  '1  was  his 
batman  before  he  was  married  an'  he  knows 
fwhat  I  mane,  av  you  don't.  There's  nothin' 
like  livin'  in  the  hoight  av  society.'  D'you  re- 
mimber  that,  Orth'ris!" 

"  Hi  do.     Toomey,  'e  died  in  'orspital,   next 


70  Indian  Tales 

week  it  was,  'cause  I  bought  'arf  his  kit;  an'  I 
remember  after  that " — 

"GUARRD,  TURN  OUT!" 

The  Rehef  had  come;  it  was  four  o'clock.  "I'll 
catch  a  kyart  for  you,  sorr,"  said  Mulvaney,  div- 
ing hastily  into  his  accoutrements.  "  Come  up  to 
the  top  av  the  Fort  an'  we'll  pershue  our  invisti- 
gations  into  M'Grath's  shtable."  The  relieved 
Guard  strolled  round  the  main  bastion  on  its  way 
to  the  swimming-bath,  and  Learoyd  grew  almost 
talkative,  Ortheris  looked  into  the  Fort  ditch 
and  across  the  plain.  "Ho!  it's  weary  waitin' 
for  Ma-ary!"  he  hummed;  "but  I'd  like  to  kill 
some  more  bloomin'  Paythans  before  my  time's 
up.  War!  Bloody  war!  North,  East,  South,  and 
West." 

"Amen,"  said  Learoyd,  slowly. 

"  Fwhat's  here.?"  said  Mulvaney,  checking  at 
a  blurr  of  white  by  the  foot  of  the  old  sentry- 
box.  He  stooped  and  touched  it.  "It'sNorah 
— Norah  M'Taggart!  Why,  Nonie,  darlin',  fwhat 
are  ye  doin'  out  av  your  mother's  bed  at  this 
time?" 

The  two-year-old  child  of  Sergeant  M'Taggart 
must  have  wandered  for  a  breath  of  cool  air  to 
the  very  verge  of  the  parapet  of  the  Fort  ditch. 
Her  tiny  night-shift  was  gathered  into  a  wisp 
round  her  neck  and  she  moaned  in  her  sleep. 
*' See  there!  "said  Mulvaney;  "poor  lamb!    Look 


With  the  Main  Guard  71 

at  the  heat-rash  on  the  innocint  skin  av  her.  'Tis 
hard — crool  hard  even  for  us.  Fwhat  must  it  be 
for  these  ?  Wake  up,  Nonie,  your  mother  will 
be  woild  about  you.  Begad,  the  child  might  ha' 
fallen  into  the  ditch!" 

He  picked  her  up  in  the  growing  light,  and  set 
her  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  fair  curls  touched 
the  grizzled  stubble  of  his  temples.  Ortheris  and 
Learoyd  followed  snapping  their  fingers,  while 
Norah  smiled  at  them  a  sleepy  smile.  Then  car- 
olled Mulvaney,  clear  as  a  lark,  dancing  the  baby 
on  his  arm  — 

"  If  any  young  man  should  marry  you, 
Say  nothin'  about  the  joke ; 
That  iver  ye  slep'  in  a  sinthry-box, 
Wrapped  up  in  a  soldier's  cloak." 

"Though,  on  my  so wl,  Nonie, "  he  said,  gravely, 
"there  was  not  much  cloak  about  you.  Niver 
mind,  you  won't  dhress  like  this  ten  years  to 
come.  Kiss  your  friends  an'  run  along  to  your 
mother." 

Nonie,  set  down  close  to  the  Married  Quarters, 
nodded  with  the  quiet  obedience  of  the  soldier's 
child,  but,  ere  she  pattered  off  over  the  flagged 
path,  held  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed  by  the  Three 
Musketeers.  Ortheris  wiped  his  mouth  with  the 
back  of  his  hand  and  swore  sentimentally;  Lea- 
royd  turned  pink;   and  the  two  walked  awav 


T^-  Indian  Tales 

together  The  Yorkshireman  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  gave  in  thunder  the  chorus  of  The  Sentry- 
Box,  while  Ortheris  piped  at  his  side. 

"'Bin  to  a  bloomin*  sing-song,  you  two?" 
said  the  Artilleryman,  who  was  taking  his  car- 
tridge down  to  the  Morning  Gun.  "You're  over 
merry  for  these  dashed  days." 

"  I  bid  ye  take  care  o'  the  brat,"  said  he, 
For  it  comes  of  a  noble  race," 

Learoyd  bellowed.  The  voices  died  out  in  the 
swimming-bath. 

"Oh,  Terence!"  I  said,  dropping  into  Mul- 
vaney's  speech,  when  we  were  alone,  "it's  you 
that  have  the  Tongue!  " 

He  looked  at  me  wearily;  his  eyes  were  sunk 
in  his  head,  and  his  face  was  drawn  and  white. 
"Eyah!"  said  he;  "I've  blandandhered  thim 
through  the  night  Somehow,  but  can  thim  that 
helps  others  help  thimselves  ^  Answer  me  that, 
sorr! " 

And  over  the  bastions  of  Fort-Amara  broke  the 
pitiless  day. 


WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE 

"  An  officer  and  a  gentleman." 

HIS  full  name  was  Percival  William  Williams, 
but  he  picked  up  the  other  name  in  a  nurs- 
ery-book, and  that  was  the  end  of  the  christened 
titles.  His  mother's  ayah  called  him  Willie- 
Baba,  but  as  he  never  paid  the  faintest  attention 
to  anything  that  the  ayah  said,  her  wisdom  did 
not  help  matters. 

His  father  was  the  Colonel  of  the  195th,  and  as 
soon  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  old  enough  to 
understand  what  Military  Discipline  meant,  Colo- 
nel Williams  put  him  under  it.  There  was  no 
other  way  of  managing  the  child.  When  he  was 
good  for  a  week,  he  drew  good-conduct  pay; 
and  when  he  was  bad,  he  was  deprived  of  his 
good-conduct  stripe.  Generally  he  was  bad,  for 
India  offers  so  many  chances  to  little  six-year- 
olds  of  going  wrong. 

Children  resent  familiarity  froni  strangers,  and 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  a  very  particular  child. 
Once  he  accepted  an  acquaintance,  he  was  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  thaw.  He  accepted  Brandis,  a 
subaltern  of  the  195th,  on  sight.  Brandis  v/as 
having  tea  at  the  Colonel's,  and  Wee  Willie  Win- 

73 


74  Indian  Tales 

kie  entered  strong  in  the  possession  of  a  good- 
conduct  badge  won  for  not  cliasing  the  hens 
round  the  compound.  He  regarded  Brandis  with 
gravity  for  at  least  ten  minutes,  and  then  de- 
livered himself  of  his  opinion. 

"I  like  you,"  said  he,  slowly,  getting  off  his 
chair  and  coming  over  to  Brandis.  "  I  like  you. 
I  shall  call  you  Coppy,  because  of  your  hair.  Do 
you  mind  being  called  Coppy  }  it  is  because  of  ve 
hair,  you  know." 

Here  was  one  of  the  most  embarrassing  of  Wee 
Willie  Winkle's  peculiarities.  He  would  look  at 
a  stranger  for  some  time,  and  then,  without 
warning  or  explanation,  would  give  him  a  name. 
And  the  name  stuck.  No  regimental  penalties 
could  break  Wee  Willie  Winkle  of  this  habit. 
He  lost  his  good-conduct  badge  for  christening 
the  Commissioner's  wife  "  Fobs  ";  but  nothing 
that  the  Colonel  could  do  made  the  Station  forego 
the  nickname,  and  Mrs.  Collen  remained  Mrs. 
•'  Fobs  "  till  the  end  of  her  stay.  So  Brandis  was 
christened  "  Coppy,"  and  rose,  therefore,  in  the 
estimation  of  the  regiment. 

If  Wee  Willie  Winkie  took  an  interest  in  any 
one,  the  fortunate  man  was  envied  alike  by  the 
mess  and  the  rank  and  file.  And  in  their  envy 
lay  no  suspicion  of  self-interest.  "The  Colonel's 
son  "was  idolized  on  his  own  merits  entirely. 
Yet  Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  not  lovely.    His  face 


Wee  Willie  Winkie  75 

was  permanently  freckled,  as  his  legs  were  per- 
manently scratched,  and  in  spite  of  his  mother's 
almost  tearful  remonstrances  he  had  insisted  upon 
having  his  long  yellow  locks  cut  short  in  the  mil- 
itary fashion.  "I  want  my  hair  like  Sergeant 
Tummil's,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and,  his 
father  abetting,  the  sacrifice  was  accomplished. 

Three  weeks  after  the  bestowal  of  his  youthful 
affections  on  Lieutenant  Brandis — henceforward 
to  be  called  "  Coppy  "  for  the  sake  of  brevity— 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  was  destined  to  behold 
strange  things  and  far  beyond  his  comprehen- 
sion. 

Coppy  returned  his  liking  with  interest. 
Coppy  had  let  him  wear  for  five  rapturous  min- 
utes his  own  big  sword — just  as  tall  as  Wee 
Willie  Winkie.  Coppy  had  promised  him  a  ter- 
rier puppy;  and  Coppy  had  permitted  him  to 
witness  the  miraculous  operation  of  shaving. 
Nay,  more — Coppy  had  said  that  even  he.  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  would  rise  in  time  to  the  owner- 
ship of  a  box  of  shiny  knives,  a  silver  soap-box 
and  a  silver-handled  "sputter-brush,"  as  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  called  it.  Decidedly,  there  was  no 
one  except  his  father,  who  could  give  or  take 
away  good-conduct  badges  at  pleasure,  half  so 
wise,  strong,  and  valiant  as  Coppy  with  the 
Afghan  and  Egyptian  medals  on  his  breast. 
Why,  then,  should  Coppy  be  guilty  of  the  un- 


76  Indian   Tales 

manly  weakness  of  kissing — vehemently  kissing 
— a  "big  girl,"  Miss  Allardyce  to  wit?  In  the 
course  of  a  morning  ride,  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
had  seen  Coppy  so  doing,  and,  like  the  gentle- 
man he  was,  had  promptly  wheeled  round  and 
cantered  back  to  his  groom,  lest  the  groom  should 
also  see. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  have 
spoken  to  his  father,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that 
this  was  a  matter  on  which  Coppy  ought  first  tc 
be  consulted. 

"  Coppy,"  shouted  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  rein- 
ing up  outside  that  subaltern's  bungalow  early 
one  morning — "  1  want  to  see  you,  Coppy!" 

"Come  in,  young  'un,"  returned  Coppy,  who 
was  at  early  breakfast  in  the  midst  of  his  dogs. 
"What  mischief  have  you  been  getting  into 
now  }  " 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  done  nothing  notori- 
ously bad  for  three  days,  and  so  stood  on  a  pin- 
nacle of  virtue. 

"I've  been  doing  nothing  bad,"  said  he,  curling 
himself  into  a  long  chair  with  a  studious  affecta- 
tion of  the  Colonel's  languor  after  a  hot  parade. 
He  buried  his  freckled  nose  in  a  tea-cup  and, 
with  eyes  staring  roundly  over  the  rim,  asked: — 
"I  say,  Coppy,  is  it  pwoper  to  kiss  big  girls  ?" 

"  By  Jove!  You're  beginning  early.  Who  do 
you  want  to  kiss  ?" 


Wee  Willie  Winkle  jy 

"  No  one.  My  muvver's  always  kissing  me  if 
I  don't  stop  her.  If  it  isn't  pwoper,  how  was  you 
kissing  Major  Allardyce's  big  girl  last  morning, 
by  ve  canal  ?  " 

Coppy's  brow  wrinkled.  He  and  Miss  Allar- 
dyce  had  with  great  craft  managed  to  keep  their 
engagement  secret  for  a  fortnight.  There  were 
urgent  and  imperative  reasons  why  Major  Allar- 
dyce  should  not  know  how  matters  stood  for  at 
least  another  month,  and  this  small  marplot  had 
discovered  a  great  deal  too  much. 

"I  saw  you,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  calmly. 
"  But  ve  groom  didn't  see.     I  said,  '  Hiifjcw.'  " 

"Oh,  you  had  that  much  sense,  you  young 
Rip,"  groaned  poor  Coppy,  half  amused  and  half 
angry.  "And  how  many  people  may  you  have 
told  about  it  ?  " 

"Only  me  myself.  You  didn't  tell  when  I 
twied  to  wide  ve  buffalo  ven  my  pony  was  lame; 
and  I  fought  you  wouldn't  like." 

"Winkie,"  said  Coppy,  enthusiastically,  shak- 
ing the  small  hand,  "you're  the  best  of  good 
fellows.  Look  here,  you  can't  understand  all 
these  things.  One  of  these  days — hang  it,  how 
can  I  make  you  see  it! — I'm  going  to  marry  Miss 
Allardyce,  and  then  she'll  be  Mrs.  Coppy,  as  you 
say.  If  your  young  mind  is  so  scandalized  at 
the  idea  of  kissing  big  girls,  go  and  tell  your 
father." 


78  Indian  Tales 

"  What  will  happen  ?"  said  Wee  Willie  Win- 
kle, who  firmly  believed  that  his  father  was  om- 
nipotent. 

"  I  shall  get  into  trouble,"  said  Coppy,  playing 
his  trump  card  with  an  appealing  look  at  the 
holder  of  the  ace. 

"  Ven  I  won't,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
briefly.  "But  my  faver  says  it's  un-man-Iy  to 
be  always  kissing,  and  I  didn't  fmkyou'd  do  vat, 
Coppy." 

"I'm  not  always  kissing,  old  chap.  It's  only 
now  and  then,  and  when  you're  bigger  you'll  do 
it  too.  Your  father  meant  it's  not  good  for  little 
boys." 

"Ah!"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  now  fully 
enlightened.     "  It's  like  ve  sputter-brush  ?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Coppy,  gravely. 

"But  I  don't  fink  I'll  ever  want  to  kiss  big 
girls,  nor  no  one,  'cept  my  muvver.  And  I  must 
vat,  you  know." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  by  Wee  Wil- 
lie Winkie. 

"Are  you  fond  of  vis  big  girl,  Coppy?" 

"Awfully!"  said  Coppy. 

"  Fonder  van  you  are  of  Bell  or  ve  Butcha — or 
me.^" 

"  It's  in  a  different  way,"  said  Coppy.  "  You 
see,  one  of  these  days  Miss  Allardyce  will  belong 
to   me,  but  you'll  grow  up  and  command  rhe 


iVee  Willie  Winkie  79 

Regiment  and — all  sorts  of  things.  It's  quite 
different,  you  see." 

"Very  well,"  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  rising. 
"If  you're  fond  of  ve  big  girl,  I  won't  tell  any 
one.     1  must  go  now." 

Coppy  rose  and  escorted  his  small  guest  to  the 
door,  adding:  "  You're  the  best  of  little  fellows, 
Winkie.  1  tell  you  what.  In  thirty  days  from 
now  you  can  tell  if  you  like — tell  any  one  you 
like." 

Thus  the  secret  of  the  Brandis-Allardyce  en- 
gagement was  dependent  on  a  little  child's  word. 
Coppy,  who  knew  Wee  Willie  Winkie's  idea  of 
truth,  was  at  ease,  for  he  felt  that  he  would  not 
break  promises.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  betrayed  a 
special  and  unusual  interest  in  Miss  Allardyce, 
and,  slov/ly  revolving  round  that  embarrassed 
young  lady,  was  used  to  regard  her  gravely  with 
unwinking  eye.  He  was  trying  to  discover  why 
Coppy  should  have  kissed  her.  She  was  not 
half  so  nice  as  his  own  mother.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  was  Coppy's  property,  and  would  in 
time  belong  to  him.  Therefore  it  behooved  him 
to  treat  her  with  as  much  respect  as  Coppy's  big 
sword  or  shiny  pistol. 

The  idea  that  he  shared  a  great  secret  in  com- 
mon with  Coppy  kept  Wee  Willie  Winkie  un- 
usually virtuous  for  three  weekso  Then  the  Old 
Adam  broke  out,  and  he  made  what  he  called  a 


8o  Indian  Tales 

"  camp-fire"  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  How 
could  he  have  foreseen  that  the  flying  sparks 
would  have  lighted  the  Colonel's  little  hayrick 
and  consumed  a  week's  store  for  the  horses  ? 
Sudden  and  swift  was  the  punishment — depriva- 
tion of  the  good-conduct  badge  and,  most  sor- 
rowful of  all,  two  days'  confinement  to  barracks 
— the  house  and  veranda — coupled  with  the  with- 
drawal of  the  light  of  his  father's  countenance. 

He  took  the  sentence  like  the  man  he  strove  to 
be,  drew  himself  up  with  a  quivering  under-lip, 
saluted,  and,  once  clear  of  the  room,  ran  to  weep 
bitterly  in  his  nursery — called  by  him  "  my  quar- 
ters." Coppy  came  in  the  afternoon  and  at- 
tempted to  console  the  culprit. 

"  I'm  under  awwest,"  said  Wee  Willie  Win- 
kie,  mournfully,  "and  I  didn't  ought  to  speak  to 
you." 

Very  early  the  next  morning  he  climbed  on  to 
the  roof  of  the  house — that  was  not  forbidden — 
and  beheld  Miss  Allardyce  going  for  a  ride. 

"Where  are  you  going .^"  cried  Wee  Willie 
Winkie. 

"Across  the  river,"  she  answered,  and  trotted 
forward. 

Now  the  cantonment  in  which  the  195th  lay 
was  bounded  on  the  north  by  a  river — dry  in  the 
winter.  From  his  earliest  years.  Wee  Willie 
Winkie   had   been   forbidden   to  go   across  the 


Wee  Willie  Winkie  gi 

river,  and  had  noted  that  even  Coppy — the  al- 
most ahnighty  Coppy — had  never  set  foot  be- 
yond it.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  had  once  been 
read  to,  out  of  a  big  blue  book,  the  history  of  the 
Princess  and  the  Goblins— a  most  wonderful  tale 
of  a  land  where  the  Goblins  were  always  warring 
with  the  children  of  men  until  they  were  defeated 
by  one  Curdie.  Ever  since  that  date  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  bare  black  and  purple  hills  across 
the  river  were  inhabited  by  Goblins,  and,  in 
truth,  every  one  had  said  that  there  lived  the  Bad 
Men.  Even  in  his  own  house  the  lower  halves 
of  the  windows  were  covered  with  green  paper 
on  account  of  the  Bad  Men  who  might,  if  allowed 
clear  view,  fire  into  peaceful  drawing-rooms  and 
comfortable  bedrooms.  Certainly,  beyond  the 
river,  which  was  the  end  of  all  the  Earth,  lived 
the  Bad  Men.  And  here  was  Major  Allardyce's 
big  girl,  Coppy 's  property,  preparing  to  venture 
into  their  borders!  What  would  Coppy  say  if 
anything  happened  to  her  ?  If  the  Goblins  ran 
off  with  her  as  they  did  with  Curdie's  Princess  } 
She  must  at  all  hazards  be  turned  back. 

The  house  was  still.  Wee  Willie  Winkie  re- 
flected for  a  moment  on  the  very  terrible  wrath 
of  his  father;  and  then — broke  his  arrest!  It  was 
a  crime  unspeakable.  The  low  sun  threw  his 
shadow,  very  large  and  very  black,  on  the  trim 
garden-paths,  as  he  went  down  to  the  stables 


82  Indian  Tales 

and  ordered  his  pony.  It  seemed  to  him  in  the 
hush  of  the  dawn  that  all  the  big  world  had  been 
bidden  to  stand  still  and  look  at  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  guilty  of  mutiny.  The  drowsy  groom 
handed  him  his  mount,  and,  since  the  one  great 
sin  made  all  others  insignificant.  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  said  that  he  was  going  to  ride  over  to 
Coppy  Sahib,  and  went  out  at  a  foot-pace,  step- 
ping on  the  soft  mould  of  the  flower-borders. 

The  devastating  track  of  the  pony's  feet  was  the 
last  misdeed  that  cut  him  off  from  all  sympathy 
of  Humanity.  He  turned  into  the  road,  leaned 
forward,  and  rode  as  fast  as  the  pony  could 
put  foot  to  the  ground  in  the  direction  of  the 
river. 

But  the-  liveliest  of  twelve-two  ponies  can  do 
little  against  the  long  canter  of  a  Waler.  Miss 
Allardyce  was  far  ahead,  had  passed  through  the 
crops,  beyond  the  Police-post,  when  all  the 
guards  were  asleep,  and  her  mount  was  scatter- 
ing the  pebbles  of  the  river  bed  as  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  left  the  cantonment  and  British  India 
behind  him.  Bowed  forward  and  still  flogging, 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  shot  into  Afghan  territory, 
and  could  just  see  Miss  Allardyce  a  black  speck, 
flickering  across  the  stony  plain.  The  reason  of 
her  wandering  was  simple  enough.  Coppy,  in 
a  tone  of  too-hastily-assumed  authority,  had  told 
her  over  night  that  she  must  not  ride  out  by  the 


Wee  Willie  Winkie  83 

river.  And  she  had  gone  to  prove  her  own  spirit 
and  teach  Coppy  a  lesson. 

Ahnost  at  the  foot  of  the  inhospitable  hills, 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  saw  the  Waler  blunder  and 
come  down  heavily.  Miss  Allardyce  struggled 
clear,  but  her  ankle  had  been  severely  twisted, 
and  she  could  not  stand.  Having  thus  demon- 
strated her  spirit,  she  wept  copiously,  and  was 
surprised  by  the  apparition  of  a  white,  wide-eyed 
child  in  khaki,  on  a  nearly  spent  pony. 

"  Are  you  badly,  badly  hurted  ?  "  shouted  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  as  soon  as  he  was  within  range. 
"  You  didn't  ought  to  be  here." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  ruefully, 
ignoring  the  reproof.  "Good  gracious,  child, 
what  ■AXtyon  doing  here  ?" 

"You  said  you  was  going  acwoss  ve  wiver," 
panted  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  throwing  himself  off 
his  pony.  "And  nobody — not  even  Coppy — 
must  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  I  came  after  you 
ever  so  hard,  but  you  wouldn't  stop,  and  now 
you've  hurted  yourself,  and  Coppy  will  be 
angwy  wiv  m.e,  and — I've  bwoken  my  awwest! 
I've  bwoken  my  awwest!  " 

The  future  Colonel  of  the  195th  sat  down  and 
sobbed.  In  spite  of  the  pain  in  her  ankle  the  girl 
was  moved. 

"Have  you  ridden  all  the  way  from  canton- 
ments, little  man?    What  for?" 


84  Indian   Tales 

"You  belonged  to  Coppy.  Coppy  told  me 
so!"  wailed  Wee  Willie  Winkle,  disconsolately. 
"I  saw  him  kissing  you,  and  he  said  he  was 
fonder  of  you  van  Bell  or  ve  Butcha  or  me.  And 
so  I  came.  You  must  get  up  and  come  back. 
You  didn't  ought  to  be  here.  Vis  is  a  bad  place, 
and  I've  bwoken  my  awwest." 

"I  can't  move,  Winkie,"  said  Miss  Allardyce, 
with  a  groan.  "  I've  hurt  my  foot.  What  shall 
I  do.?" 

She  showed  a  readiness  to  weep  afresh,  which 
steadied  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  who  had  been 
brought  up  to  believe  that  tears  were  the  depth 
of  unmanliness.  Still,  when  one  is  as  great  a 
sinner  as  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  even  a  man  may  be 
permitted  to  break  down. 

"Winkie,"  said  Miss  Allardyce,  "when  you've 
rested  a  little,  ride  back  and  tell  them  to  send 
out  something  to  carry  me  back  in.  It  hurts 
fearfully." 

The  child  sat  still  for  a  little  time  and  Miss 
Allardyce  closed  her  eyes;  the  pain  was  nearly 
making  her  faint.  She  was  roused  by  Wee 
Willie  Winkie  tying  up  the  reins  on  his  pony's 
neck  and  setting  it  free  with  a  vicious  cut  of  his 
whip  that  made  it  whicker.  The  little  animal 
headed  toward  the  cantonments. 

"  Oh,  Winkie!    What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Hush ! "  said  Wee  Willie  Winkie.    "  Vere's  a 


Wee  Willie  Winkle  85 

man  coming — one  of  ve  Bad  Men.  I  must  stay 
wiv  you.  My  faver  says  a  man  must  always 
look  after  a  girl.  Jack  will  go  home,  and  ven 
vey'll  come  and  look  for  us.     Vat's  why  I  let  him 

go." 

Not  one  man  but  two  or  three  had  appeared 
from  behind  the  rocks  of  the  hills,  and  the  heart 
of  Wee  Willie  Winkie  sank  within  him,  for  just 
in  this  manner  were  the  Goblins  wont  to  steal 
out  and  vex  Curdie's  soul.  Thus  had  they  played 
in  Curdie's  garden,  he  had  seen  the  picture,  and 
thus  had  they  frightened  the  Princess's  nurse. 
He  heard  them  talking  to  each  other,  and  recog- 
nized with  joy  the  bastard  Pushto  that  he  had 
picked  up  from  one  of  his  father's  grooms  lately 
dismissed.  People  who  spoke  that  tongue  could 
not  be  the  Bad  Men.  They  were  only  natives 
after  all. 

They  came  up  to  the  bowlders  on  which  Miss 
Allardyce's  horse  had  blundered. 

Then  rose  from  the  rock  Wee  Willie  Winkie, 
child  of  the  Dominant  Race,  aged  six  and  three- 
quarters,  and  said  briefly  and  emphatically  ''Jaol" 
The  pony  had  crossed  the  river-bed. 

The  men  laughed,  and  laughter  from  natives 
was  the  one  thing  Wee  Willie  Winkie  could  not 
tolerate.  He  asked  them  what  they  wanted  and 
why  they  did  not  depart.  Other  men  with  most 
evil  faces  and  crooked-stocked  guns  crept  out  of 


86  Indian    Tales 

the  shadows  of  the  hills,  till,  soon,  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  was  face  to  face  with  an  audience  some 
twenty  strong.     Miss  AUardyce  screamed. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men. 

"1  am  the  Colonel  Sahib's  son,  and  my  order 
is  that  you  go  at  once.  You  black  men  are 
frightening  the  Miss  Sahib.  One  of  you  must 
run  into  cantonments  and  take  the  news  that 
Miss  Sahib  has  hurt  herself,  and  that  the  Colonel's 
son  is  here  with  her." 

"  Put  our  feet  into  the  trap  ?"  was  the  laughing 
reply.     "  Hear  this  boy's  speech! " 

"Say  that  I  sent  you — I,  the  Colonel's  son. 
They  will  give  you  money." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  this  talk  ?  Take  up  the 
child  and  the  girl,  and  we  can  at  least  ask  for  the 
ransom.  Ours  are  the  villages  on  the  heights," 
said  a  voice  in  the  background. 

These  were  the  Bad  Men — worse  than  Goblins — 
and  it  needed  all  Wee  Willie  Winkle's  training  to 
prevent  him  from  bursting  into  tears.  But  he 
felt  that  to  cry  before  a  native,  excepting  only  his 
mother's  ayah,  would  be  an  infamy  greater  than 
any  mutiny.  Moreover,  he,  as  future  Colonel  of 
the  195th,  had  that  grim  regiment  at  his  back. 

"Are  you  going  to  carry  us  away  ?"  said  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  very  blanched  and  uncomfortable. 

"Yes,  my  little  Sahib  Bahadur,"  said  the  tall- 
est of  the  men,  "  and  eat  you  afterward." 


Wee  Willie  IVinkie  '       87 

"That  is  child's  talk,"  said  Wee  Willie  Win- 
kie.     "Men  do  not  eat  men." 

A  yell  of  laughter  interrupted  him,  but  he  went 
on  firmly, — "  And  if  you  do  carry  us  away,  I  tell 
you  that  all  my  regiment  will  come  up  in  a  day 
and  kill  you  all  without  leaving  one.  Who  will 
take  my  message  to  the  Colonel  Sahib  }  " 

Speech  in  any  vernacular — and  Wee  Willie 
Winkie  had  a  colloquial  acquaintance  with  three 
— was  easy  to  the  boy  who  could  not  yet  man- 
age his  "r's"  and  "th's"  aright. 

Another  man  joined  the  conference,  crying: — 
"O  foolish  men!  What  this  babe  says  is  true. 
He  is  the  heart's  heart  of  those  white  troops. 
For  the  sake  of  peace  let  them  go  both,  for  if  he 
be  taken,  the  regiment  will  break  loose  and  gut 
the  valley.  Our  villages  are  in  the  valley,  and 
we  shall  not  escape.  That  regiment  are  devils. 
They  broke  Khoda  Yar's  breast-bone  with  kicks 
when  he  tried  to  take  the  rifles;  and  if  we  touch 
this  child  they  will  fire  and  rape  and  plunder  for 
a  month,  till  nothing  remains.  Better  to  send  a 
man  back  to  take  the  message  and  get  a  reward. 
I  say  that  this  child  is  their  God,  and  that  they 
will  spare  none  of  us,  nor  our  women,  if  we 
harm  him." 

It  was  Din  Mahommed,  the  dismissed  groom 
of  the  Colonel,  who  made  the  diversion,  and  an 
angry  and   heated    discussion    followed.     Wee 


88        '  Indian   Tales 

Willie  Winkie,  standing  over  Miss  Allardyce, 
waited  tiie  upshot.  Surely  his  "  wegiment,"  his 
own  "  wegiment,"  would  not  desert  him  if  they 
knew  of  his  extremity. 


The  riderless  pony  brought  the  news  to  the 
195th,  though  there  had  been  consternation  in 
the  Colonel's  household  for  an  hour  before. 
The  little  beast  came  in  through  the  parade 
ground  in  front  of  the  main  barracks,  where 
the  men  were  settling  down  to  play  Spoil-five 
till  the  afternoon.  Devlin,  the  Color  Sergeant  of 
E  Company,  glanced  at  the  empty  saddle  and 
tumbled  through  the  barrack-rooms,  kicking  up 
each  Room  Corporal  as  he  passed.  "Up,  ye 
beggars!  There's  something  happened  to  the 
Colonel's  son,"  he  shouted. 

"  He  couldn't  fall  off!  S'elp  me,  'e  couldn't 
fall  off,"  blubbered  a  drummer-boy.  "Go  an' 
hunt  acrost  the  river.  He's  over  there  if  he's 
anywhere,  an'  maybe  those  Pathans  have  got 
'im.  For  the  love  o'  Gawd  don't  look  for  'im 
m  the  nullahs!     Let's  go  over  the  river." 

"  There's  sense  in  Mott  yet,"  said  Devlin.  "  E 
Company,  double  out  to  the  river — sharp!" 

So  E  Company,  in  its  shirt-sleeves  mainly, 
doubled  for  the  dear  life,  and  in  the  rear  toiled 
the  perspiring  Sergeant,  adjuring  it  to  double  yet 


Wee  Willie  Winkie  89 

faster.  The  cantonment  was  alive  with  the  men 
of  the  195th  hunting  for  Wee  Willie  Winkie,  and 
the  Colonel  finally  overtook  E  Company,  far  too 
exhausted  to  swear,  struggling  in  the  pebbles  of 
the  river-bed. 

Up  the  hill  under  which  Wee  Willie  Winkle's 
Bad  Men  were  discussing  the  wisdom  of  carry- 
ing off  the  child  and  the  girl,  a  look-out  fired  two 
shots. 

"What  have  1  said?"  shouted  Din  Mahom- 
med.  "There  is  the  warning!  The  ptclton  are 
out  already  and  are  coming  across  the  plain! 
Get  away!    Let  us  not  be  seen  with  the  boy! " 

The  men  waited  for  an  instant,  and  then,  as 
another  shot  was  fired,  withdrew  into  the  hills, 
silently  as  they  had  appeared. 

"Thewegiment  is  coming,"  said  Wee  Willie 
Winkie,  confidently,  to  Miss  Allardyce,  "and  it's 
all  wight.     Don't  cwy!" 

He  needed  the  advice  himself,  for  ten  minutes 
later,  when  his  father  came  up,  he  was  weeping 
bitterly  with  his  head  in  Miss  Allardyce's  lap. 

And  the  men  of  the  195th  carried  him  home 
with  shouts  and  rejoicings;  and  Coppy,  who 
had  ridden  a  horse  into  a  lather,  met  him,  and, 
to  his  intense  disgust,  kissed  him  openly  in  the 
presence  of  the  men. 

But  there  was  balm  for  his  dignity.  His 
father    assured    him    that   not  only  would   the 


90  Indian  Tales 

breaking  of  arrest  be  concioned,  but  that  the 
good-conduct  badge  would  be  restored  as  soon 
as  his  mother  could  sew  it  on  his  blouse-sleeve. 
Miss  AUardyce  had  told  the  Colonel  a  story  that 
made  him  proud  of  his  son. 

"She  belonged  to  you,  Coppy,"  said  Wee 
Willie  Winkie,  indicating  Miss  AUardyce  with 
a  grimy  forefinger.  "1  knew  she  didn't  ought 
to  go  acwoss  ve  wiver,  and  1  knew  ve  wegiment 
would  come  to  me  if  I  sent  Jack  home." 

"You're  a  hero,  Winkie,"  said  Coppy — "a 
pukka  hero ! " 

"I  don't  know  what  vat  means,"  said  Wea 
WiUie  Winkie,  "but  you  mustn't  call  me  Win- 
kie any  no  more.  I'm  Percival  Will'am  Wil- 
I'ams." 

And  in  this  manner  did  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
enter  into  his  manhood. 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  WHITE 
HUSSARS 

It  was  not  in  tlie  open  fight 

We  threw  away  the  sword, 
But  in  the  lonely  watching 

In  the  darkness  by  the  ford. 
The  waters  lapped,  the  night-wind  blew. 
Full-armed  the  Fear  was  born  and  grew, 
And  we  were  flying  ere  we  knew 

From  panic  in  the  night. 

—  Beo7ii  Bar. 

SOME  people  hold  that  an  English  Cavalry 
regiment  cannot  run.  This  is  a  mistake.  I 
have  seen  four  hundred  and  thirty-seven  sabres 
flying  over  the  face  of  the  country  in  abject  ter- 
ror— have  seen  the  best  Regiment  that  ever  drev^^ 
bridle  wiped  off  the  Army  List  for  the  space  of 
two  hours.  If  you  repeat  this  tale  to  the  White 
Hussars  they  will,  in  all  probability,  treat  you 
severely.     They  are  not  proud  of  the  incident. 

You  may  know  the  White  Hussars  by  their 
"side."  which  is  greater  than  that  of  all  the  Cav- 
alry Regiments  on  the  roster.  If  this  is  not  a 
sufficient  mark,  you  may  know  them  by  their  old 
brandy.  It  has  been  sixty  years  in  the  Mess  and 
is  worth  going  far  to  taste.     Ask  for  the  '  Mc- 

91 


92  Indian  Tales 

Gaire"  old  brandy,  and  see  that  you  get  it.  If 
the  Mess  Sergeant  thinks  that  you  are  uneducated, 
and  that  the  genuine  article  will  be  lost  on  you, 
he  will  treat  you  accordingly.  He  is  a  good  man. 
But,  when  you  are  at  Mess,  you  must  never  talk 
to  your  hosts  about  forced  marches  or  long-dis- 
tance rides.  The  Mess  are  very  sensitive;  and,  if 
they  think  that  you  are  laughing  at  them,  will  tell 
you  so. 

As  the  White  Hussars  say,  it  was  all  the  Colo- 
nel's fault.  He  was  a  new  man,  and  he  ought 
never  to  have  taken  the  Command.  He  said  that 
the  Regiment  was  not  smart  enough.  This  to 
the  White  Hussars,  who  knew  that  they  could 
walk  round  any  Horse  and  through  any  Guns, 
and  over  any  Foot  on  the  face  of  the  earth !  That 
insult  was  the  first  cause  of  offence. 

Then  the  Colonel  cast  the  Drum-Horse — the 
Drum-Horse  of  the  White  Hussars!  Perhaps 
you  do  not  see  what  an  unspeakable  crime  he 
had  committed.  I  will  try  to  make  it  clear.  The 
soul  of  the  Regiment  lives  in  the  Drum-Horse 
who  carries  the  silver  kettle-drums.  He  is  nearly 
always  a  big  piebald  Waler.  That  is  a  point  of 
honor;  and  a  Regiment  will  spend  anything  you 
please  on  a  piebald.  He  is  beyond  the  ordinary 
laws  of  casting.  His  work  is  very  light,  and  he 
only  manoeuvres  at  a  footpace.  Wherefore,  so 
long  as  he  can  step  out  and  look  handsome,  his 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  93 

well-being  is  assured.  He  knows  more  about  tlie 
Regiment  than  the  Adjutant,  and  could  not  make 
a  mistake  if  he  tried. 

The  Drum-Horse  of  the  White  Hussars  was 
only  eighteen  years  old,  and  perfectly  equal  to 
his  duties.  He  had  at  least  six  years'  more  work 
in  him,  and  carried  himself  with  all  the  pomp 
and  dignity  of  a  Drum-Major  of  the  Guards. 
The  Regiment  had  paid  Rs.  1200  for  him. 

But  the  Colonel  said  that  he  must  go,  and  he 
was  cast  in  due  form  and  replaced  by  a  washy, 
bay  beast,  as  ugly  as  a  mule,  with  a  ewe-neck, 
rat-tail,  and  cow-hocks.  The  Drummer  detested 
that  animal,  and  the  best  of  the  Band-horses  put 
back  their  ears  and  showed  the  whites  of  their 
eyes  at  the  very  sight  of  him.  They  knew  him 
for  an  upstart  and  no  gentleman.  I  fancy  that 
the  Colonel's  ideas  of  smartness  extended  to  the 
Band,  and  that  he  wanted  to  make  it  take  part  in 
the  regular  parade  movements.  A  Cavalry  Band 
is  a  sacred  thing.  It  only  turns  out  for  Com- 
manding Officers'  parades,  and  the  Band  Master 
is  one  degree  more  important  than  the  Colonel. 
He  is  a  High  Priest  and  the  "Keel  Row"  is  his 
holy  song.  The  "Keel  Row"  is  the  Cavalry 
Trot;  and  the  man  who  has  never  heard  that 
tune  rising,  high  and  shrill,  above  the  rattle  of 
the  Regiment  going  past  the  saluting-base,  has 
something  yet  to  hear  and  understand. 


94  Mdian  Tales 

When  the  Colonel  cast  the  Drum-Horse  of  the 
White  Hussars,  there  was  nearly  a  mutiny. 

The  officers  were  angry,  the  Regiment  were 
furious,  and  the  Bandsmen  swore — lii<e  troopers. 
The  Drum-Horse  was  going  to  be  put  up  to 
auction — public  auction — to  be  bought,  perhaps, 
by  a  Parsee  and  put  into  a  cart!  It  was  worse 
than  exposing  the  inner  life  of  the  Regiment 
to  the  whole  world,  or  selling  the  Mess  Plate  to  a 
Jew — a  Black  jew. 

The  Colonel  was  a  mean  man  and  a  bully.  He 
knew  what  the  Regiment  thought  about  his 
action;  and,  when  the  troopers  offered  to  buy 
the  Drum-Horse,  he  said  that  their  offer  was 
mutinous  and  forbidden  by  the  Regulations. 

But  one  of  the  Subalterns — Hogan-Yale,  an 
Irishman — bought  the  Drum-Horse  for  Rs,  1 60  at 
the  sale,  and  the  Colonel  was  wroth.  Yale  pro- 
fessed repentance — he  was  unnaturally  submis- 
sive— and  said  that,  as  he  had  only  made  the  pur- 
chase to  save  the  horse  from  possible  ill-treat- 
ment and  starvation,  he  would  now  shoot  him 
and  end  the  business.  This  appeared  to  soothe 
the  Colonel,  for  he  wanted  the  Drum-Horse  dis- 
posed of.  He  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  could  not  of  course  acknowledge  it.  Mean- 
time, the  presence  of  the  Drum-Horse  was  an 
annoyance  to  him. 

Yale  took  to  himself  a  glass  of  the  old  brandy. 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  95 

three  cheroots,  and  his  friend  Martyn;  and  they 
all  left  the  Mess  together,  Yale  and  Martyn  con-, 
ferred  for  two  hours  in  Yale's  quarters;  but  only 
the  bull-terrier  who  keeps  watch  over  Yale"s 
boot-trees  knows  what  they  said.  A  horse, 
hooded  and  sheeted  to  his  ears,  left  Yale's  stables 
and  was  taken,  very  unwillingly,  into  the  Civil 
Lines.  Yale's  groom  went  with  him.  Two 
men  broke  into  the  Regimental  Theatre  and  took 
several  paint-pots  and  some  large  scenery- 
brushes.  Then  night  fell  over  the  Cantonments, 
and  there  was  a  noise  as  of  a  horse  kicking  his 
loose-box  to  pieces  in  Yale's  stables.  Yale  had  a 
big,  old,  white  Waler  trap-horse. 

The  next  day  was  a  Thursday,  and  the  men, 
hearing  that  Yale  was  going  to  shoot  the  Drum- 
Horse  in  the  evening,  determined  to  give  the 
beast  a  regular  regimental  funeral — a  finer  one 
than  they  v/ould  have  given  the  Colonel  had  he 
died  just  then.  They  got  a  bullock-cart  and  some 
sacking,  and  mounds  and  mounds  of  roses,  and 
the  body,  under  sacking,  was  carried  out  to  the 
place  where  the  anthrax  cases  were  cremated; 
two-thirds  of  the  Regiment  following.  There 
was  no  Band,  but  they  all  sang  "The  Place 
where  the  old  Horse  died  "  as  something  respect- 
ful and  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  When  the 
corpse  was  dumped  into  the  grave  and  the  men 
began  throwing  down  armfuls  of  roses  to  cover 


9^  Indian  Tales 

it,  the  Farrier-Sergeant  ripped  out  an  oatli  and 
said  aloud,  "Why,  it  ain't  the  Drum-Horse  any 
more  than  it's  me!  "  The  Troop  Sergeant-Majors 
asked  him  whether  he  had  left  his  head  in  the 
Canteen.  The  Farrier-Sergeant  said  that  he  knew 
the  Drum-Horse's  feet  as  well  as  he  knew  his 
own;  but  he  was  silenced  when  he  saw  the 
regimental  number  burned  in  on  the  poor  stiff,  up- 
turned near-fore. 

Thus  was  the  Drum-Horse  of  the  White  Hus- 
sars buried;  the  Farrier-Sergeant  grumbling. 
The  sacking  that  covered  the  corpse  was  smeared 
in  places  with  black  paint;  and  the  Farrier-Ser- 
geant drew  attention  to  this  fact.  But  the  Troop- 
Sergeant-Major  of  E  Troop  kicked  him  severely 
on  the  shin,  and  told  him  that  he  was  undoubt- 
edly drunk. 

On  the  Monday  following  the  burial,  the 
Colonel  sought  revenge  on  the  White  Hussars. 
Unfortunately,  being  at  that  time  temporarily  in 
Command  of  the  Station,  he  ordered  a  Brigade 
field-day.  He  said  that  he  wished  to  make  the 
Regiment  "sweat  for  their  damned  insolence," 
and  he  carried  out  his  notion  thoroughly.  That 
Monday  was  one  of  the  hardest  days  in  the  mem- 
ory of  the  White  Hussars.  They  were  thrown 
against  a  skeleton-enemy,  and  pushed  forward, 
and  withdrawn,  and  dismounted,  and  "scientific- 
ally   handled "    in    every    possible   fashion   over 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  97 

dusty  country,  till  they  sweated  profusely.  Their 
only  amusement  came  late  in  the  day  when  they 
fell  upon  the  battery  of  Horse  Artillery  and 
chased  it  for  two  miles.  This  was  a  personal 
question,  and  most  of  the  troopers  had  money  on 
the  event;  the  Gunners  saying  openly  that  they 
had  the  legs  of  the  White  Hussars.  They  were 
wrong.  A  march-past  concluded  the  campaign, 
and  when  the  Regiment  got  back  to  their  Lines, 
the  men  were  coated  with  dirt  from  spur  to  chin- 
strap. 

The  White  Hussars  have  one  great  and  peculiar 
privilege.     They  won  it  at  Fontenoy,  1  think. 

Many  Regiments  possess  special  rights  such  as 
wearing  collars  with  undress  uniform,  or  a  bow 
of  riband  between  the  shoulders,  or  red  and 
white  roses  in  their  helmets  on  certain  days  of 
the  year.  Some  rights  are  connected  with  regi- 
mental saints,  and  some  with  regimental  suc- 
cesses. All  are  valued  highly;  but  none  so 
highly  as  the  right  of  the  White  Hussars  to  have 
the  Band  playing  when  their  horses  are  being 
watered  in  the  Lines.  Only  one  tune  is  played, 
and  that  tune  never  varies.  I  don't  know  its  real 
name,  but  the  White  Hussars  call  it,  "Take  me 
to  London  again."  It  sounds  verv  pretty.  The 
Regiment  would  sooner  be  struck  off  the  roster 
than  forego  their  distinction. 

After  the  "dismiss"  was  sounded,  the  officers 


98  Indian  Tales 

rode  off  home  to  prepare  for  stables;  and  the 
men  filed  into  the  lines  riding  easy.  That  is  to 
say,  they  opened  their  tight  buttons,  shifted  their 
helmets,  and  began  to  joke  or  to  swear  as  the 
humor  took  them;  the  more  careful  slipping  off 
and  easing  girths  and  curbs.  A  good  trooper 
values  his  mount  exactly  as  much  as  he  values 
himself,  and  believes,  or  should  believe,  that  the 
two  together  are  irresistible  where  women  or 
men,  girls  or  guns,  are  concerned. 

Then  the  Orderly-Officer  gave  the  order, 
"Water  horses,"  and  the  Regiment  loafed  off  to 
the  squadron-troughs  which  were  in  rear  of  the 
stables  and  between  these  and  the  barracks. 
There  were  four  huge  troughs,  one  for  each 
squadron,  arranged  en  echelon,  so  that  the  whole 
Regiment  could  water  in  ten  minutes  if  it  liked. 
But  it  lingered  for  seventeen,  as  a  rule,  while  the 
Band  played. 

The  Band  struck  up  as  the  squadrons  filed  off  to 
the  troughs,  and  the  men  slipped  their  feet  out  of 
the  stirrups  and  chaffed  each  other.  The  sun  was 
just  setting  in  a  big,  hot  bed  of  red  cloud,  and 
the  road  to  the  Civil  Lines  seemed  to  run  straight 
into  the  sun's  eye.  There  was  a  little  dot  on  the 
road.  It  grew  and  grew  till  it  showed  as  a  horse, 
with  a  sort  of  gridiron-thing  on  his  back.  The 
red  cloud  glared  through  the  bars  of  the  gridiron. 
Some  of  the  troopers  shaded  their  eyes  with  their 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  99 

hands  and  said — "What  the  mischief  'as  that 
there  'orse  got  on  'im  ?  " 

In  another  minute  they  heard  a  neigh  that  every 
soul — horse  and  man — in  the  Regiment  knew, 
and  saw,  heading  straight  toward  the  Band,  the 
dead  Drum-Horse  of  the  White  Hussars! 

On  his  withers  banged  and  bumped  the  kettle- 
drums draped  in  crape,  and  on  his  back,  very 
stiff  and  soldierly,  sat  a  bareheaded  skeleton. 

The  Band  stopped  playing,  and,  for  a  moment, 
there  was  a  hush. 

Then  some  one  in  E  Troop — men  said  it  was 
the  Troop-Sergeant-Major — swung  his  horse 
round  and  yelled.  No  one  can  account  exactly 
for  what  happened  afterward;  but  it  seems  that, 
at  least,  one  man  in  each  troop  set  an  example  of 
panic,  and  the  rest  followed  like  sheep.  The 
horses  that  had  barely  put  their  muzzles  into  the 
troughs  reared  and  capered;  but  as  soon  as  the 
Band  broke,  which  it  did  when  the  ghost  of  the 
Drum-Horse  was  about  a  furlong  distant,  all 
hooves  followed  suit,  and  the  clatter  of  the 
stampede — quite  different  from  the  orderly  throb 
and  roar  of  a  movement  on  parade,  or  the  rough 
horse-play  of  watering  in  camp — made  them  only 
more  terrified.  They  felt  that  the  men  on  their 
backs  were  afraid  of  something.  When  horses 
once  know  that,  all  is  over  except  the  butchery. 

Troop  after  troop  turned  from  the  troughs  and 


lOO  Indian  Tales 

ran — anywhere  and  everywhere — like  spilled 
quicksilver.  It  was  a  most  extraordinary  spec- 
tacle, for  men  and  horses  were  in  all  stages  of 
easiness,  and  the  carbine-buckets  flopping  against 
their  sides  urged  the  horses  on.  Men  were  shout- 
ing and  cursing,  and  trying  to  pull  clear  of  the  Band 
which  was  being  chased  by  the  Drum-Horse 
whose  rider  had  fallen  forward  and  seemed  to  be 
spurring  for  a  wager. 

The  Colonel  had  gone  over  to  the  Mess  for  a 
drink.  Most  of  the  officers  were  with  him,  and 
the  Subaltern  of  the  Day  was  preparing  to  go 
down  to  the  lines,  and  receive  the  watering  re- 
ports from  the  Troop-Sergeant-Majors.  When 
"Take  me  to  London  again"  stopped,  after 
twenty  bars,  every  one  in  the  Mess  said,  "  What 
on  earth  has  happened  }  "  A  minute  later,  they 
heard  unmilitary  noises,  and  saw,  far  across  the 
plain,  the  White  Hussars  scattered,  and  broken, 
and  flying. 

The  Colonel  was  speechless  with  rage,  for  he 
thought  that  the  Regiment  had  risen  against  him 
or  was  unanimously  drunk.  The  Band,  a  dis- 
organized mob,  tore  past,  and  at  its  heels  labored 
the  Drum-Horse — the  dead  and  buried  Drum- 
Horse — with  the  jolting,  clattering  skeleton.  Ho- 
gan-Yale  whispered  softly  to  Martyn — "  No  wire 
will  stand  that  treatment,"  and  the  Band,  which 
bad  doubled  like  a  hare,  came  back  again.     But 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  loi 

the  rest  of  the  Regiment  was  gone,  was  rioting 
all  over  the  Province,  for  the  dusk  had  shut  in 
and  each  man  was  howling  to  his  neighbor  that 
the  Drum-Horse  was  on  his  flanl<:.  Troop-horses 
are  far  too  tenderly  treated  as  a  rule.  They  can, 
on  emergencies,  do  a  great  deal,  even  with  seven- 
teen stone  on  their  backs.  As  the  troopers  found 
out. 

How  long  this  panic  lasted  I  cannot  say.  I  be- 
lieve that  when  the  moon  rose  the  men  saw  they 
had  nothing  to  fear,  and,  by  twos  and  threes  and 
half-troops,  crept  back  into  Cantonments  very 
much  ashamed  of  themselves.  Meantime,  the 
Drum-Horse,  disgusted  at  his  treatment  by  old 
friends,  pulled  up,  wheeled  round,  and  trotted 
up  to  the  Mess  veranda-steps  for  bread.  No 
one  liked  to  run;  but  no  one  cared  to  go  forward 
till  the  Colonel  made  a  movement  and  laid  hold 
of  the  skeleton's  foot.  The  Band  had  halted 
some  distance  away,  and  now  came  back  slowly. 
The  Colonel  called  it,  individually  and  collectively, 
every  evil  name  that  occurred  to  him  at  the  time; 
for  he  had  set  his  hand  on  the  bosom  of  the 
Drum-Horse  and  found  flesh  and  blood.  Then 
he  beat  the  kettle-drums  with  his  clenched  fist, 
and  discovered  that  they  were  but  made  of 
silvered  paper  and  bamboo.  Next,  still  swear- 
ing, he  tried  to  drag  the  skeleton  out  of  the  sad- 
dlev  but  found  that  it  had  been  wired  into  the 


I02  Indian  Tales 

cantle.  The  sight  of  the  Colonel,  with  his  arms 
round  the  skeleton's  pelvis  and  his  knee  in  the 
old  Drum-Horse's  stomach,  was  striking.  Not 
to  say  amusing.  He  worried  the  thing  off  in  a 
minute  or  two,  and  threw  it  down  on  the  ground, 
saying  to  the  Band—"  Here,  you  curs,  that's 
what  you're  afraid  of."  The  skeleton  did  not 
look  pretty  in  the  twilight.  The  Band-Sergeant 
seemed  to  recognize  it,  for  he  began  to  chuckle 
and  choke.  "  Shall  I  take  it  away,  sir  ?  "  said  the 
Band-Sergeant.  "  Yes,"  said  the  Colonel,  "take 
it  to  Hell,  and  ride  there  yourselves!  " 

The  Band-Sergeant  saluted,  hoisted  the  skeleton 
across  his  saddle-bow,  and  led  off  to  the  stables. 
Then  the  Colonel  began  to  make  inquiries  for  the 
rest  of  the  Regiment,  and  the  language  he  used 
was  wonderful.  He  would  disband  the  Regi- 
ment— he  would  court-martial  every  soul  in  it — 
he  would  not  command  such  a  set  of  rabble,  and 
so  on,  and  so  on.  .  As  the  men  dropped  in,  his 
language  grew  wilder,  until  at  last  it  exceeded 
the  utmost  limits  of  free  speech  allowed  even  to 
a  Colonel  of  Horse. 

Martyn  took  Hogan-Yale  aside  and  suggested 
compulsory  retirement  from  the  Service  as  a 
necessity  when  all  was  discovered.  Martyn  was 
the  weaker  man  of  the  two.  Hogan-Yale  put  up 
his  eyebrows  and  remarked,  firstly,  that  he  was 
the  son  of  a  Lord,  and,  secondly,  that  he  was  as 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  103 

innocent  as  the  babe  unborn  of  the  theatrical 
resurrection  of  the  Drum-Horse. 

"My  instructions,"  said  Yale,  with  a  singu- 
larly sweet  smile,  "were  that  the  Drum-Horse 
should  be  sent  back  as  impressively  as  possible. 
1  ask  you,  am  I  responsible  if  a  mule-headed 
friend  sends  him  back  in  such  a  manner  as  to  dis- 
turb the  peace  of  mind  of  a  regiment  of  Her 
Majesty's  Cavalry  ?" 

Marty n  said,  "You  are  a  great  man,  and  will 
in  time  become  a  General;  but  I'd  give  my  chance 
of  a  troop  to  be  safe  out  of  this  affair." 

Providence  saved  Martyn  and  Hogan-Yale. 
The  Second-in-Command  led  the  Colonel  away 
to  the  little  curtained  alcove  wherein  the  Sub- 
alterns of  the  White  Hussars  were  accustomed  to 
play  poker  of  nights;  and  there,  after  many  oaths 
on  the  Colonel's  part,  they  talked  together  in  low 
tones.  I  fancy  that  the  Second-in-Command 
must  have  represented  the  scare  as  the  work  of 
some  trooper  whom  it  would  be  hopeless  to  de- 
tect; and  1  know  that  he  dwelt  upon  the  sin  and 
the  shame  of  making  a  public  laughing-stock  of 
the  scare. 

"They  will  call  us,"  said  the  Second-in-Com- 
mand, who  had  really  a  fine  imagination — "they 
will  call  us  the  *  Fly-by-Nights ' ;  they  will  call  us 
the  '  Ghost  Hunters ';  they  will  nickname  us  from 
one  end  of  the  Army  List  to  the  other.     All  the 


104  Indian  Tales 

explanation  in  the  world  won't  make  outsiders 
understand  that  the  officers  were  away  when  the 
panic  began.  For  the  honor  of  the  Regiment 
and  for  your  own  sake  keep  this  thing  quiet." 

The  Colonel  was  so  exhausted  with  anger  that 
soothing  him  down  was  not  so  difficult  as  might 
be  imagined.  He  was  made  to  see,  gently  and 
by  degrees,  that  it  was  obviously  impossible  to 
court-martial  the  whole  Regiment  and  equally 
impossible  to  proceed  against  any  subaltern  who, 
in  his  belief,  had  any  concern  in  the  hoax. 

"But  the  beast's  alive!  He's  never  been  shot 
at  all!"  shouted  the  Colonel,  "it's  tlat  flagrant 
disobedience!  I've  known  a  man  broke  for  less 
— dam  sight  less.  They're  mocking  me,  I  tell 
you,  Mutman!    They're  mocking  me!  " 

Once  more,  the  Second-in-Command  set  him- 
self to  soothe  the  Colonel,  and  wrestled  with  him 
for  half  an  hour.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  the 
Regimental  Sergeant-Major  reported  himself.  The 
situation  was  rather  novel  to  him;  but  he  was 
not  a  man  to  be  put  out  by  circumstances.  He 
saluted  and  said,  "Regiment  all  come  back,  Sir." 
Then,  to  propitiate  the  Colonel — "An'  none  of 
the  'orses  any  the  worse,  Sir." 

The  Colonel  only  snorted  and  answered — 
"  You'd  better  tuck  the  men  into  their  cots,  then, 
and  see  that  they  don't  wake  up  and  cry  in  the 
night."    The  Sergeant  withdrew. 


The  Rout  of  the  White  Hussars  105 

His  little  stroke  of  humor  pleased  the  Colonel, 
and,  further,  he  felt  slightly  ashamed  of  the  lan- 
guage he  had  been  using.  The  Second-in-Com- 
mand  worried  him  again,  and  the  two  sat  talking 
far  into  the  night. 

Next  day  but  one,  there  was  a  Commanding 
Officer's  parade,  and  the  Colonel  harangued  the 
White  Hussars  vigorously.  The  pith  of  his 
speech  was  that,  since  the  Drum-Horse  in  his  old 
age  had  proved  himself  capable  of  cutting  up  the 
whole  Regiment,  he  should  return  to  his  post  of 
pride  at  the  head  of  the  Band,  but  the  Regiment 
were  a  set  of  ruffians  with  bad  consciences. 

The  White  Hussars  shouted,  and  threw  every- 
thing movable  about  them  into  the  air,  and 
when  the  parade  was  over,  they  cheered  the  Col- 
onel till  they  couldn't  speak.  No  cheers  were 
put  up  for  Lieutenant  Hogan-Yale,  who  smiled 
very  sweetly  in  the  background. 

Said  the  Second-in-Command  to  the  Colonel, 
unofficially  — 

"These  little  things  ensure  popularity,  and  do 
not  the  least  affect  discipline." 

"  But  I  went  back  on  my  word,"  said  the  Col- 
onel. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  Second-in-Command. 
"The  White  Hussars  will  follow  you  anywhere 
from  to-day.  Regiments  are  just  like  women. 
They  will  do  anything  for  trinketry." 


io6  Indian  Tales 

A  week  later,  Hogan-Yale  received  an  extraor- 
dinary letter  from  some  one  who  signed  himself 
"Secretary,  Charity  and  Zeal,  3709,  E.  C," 
and  asked  for  "  the  return  of  our  skeleton  which 
we  have  reason  to  believe  is  in  your  possession," 

"Who  the  deuce  is  this  lunatic  who  trades  in 
bones?"  said  Hogan-Yale. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  the  Band-Ser- 
geant, "but  the  skeleton  is  with  me,  an'  I'll  re- 
turn it  if  you'll  pay  the  carriage  into  the  Civil 
Lines.     There's  a  coffin  with  it,  Sir." 

Hogan-Yale  smiled  and  handed  two  rupees  to 
the  Band-Sergeant,  saying,  "Write  the  date  on 
the  skull,  will  you?" 

If  you  doubt  this  story,  and  know  where  to  go, 
you  can  see  the  date  on  the  skeleton.  But  don't 
mention  the  matter  to  the  White  Hussars. 

I  happened  to  know  something  about  it,  be- 
cause I  prepared  the  Drum-Horse  for  his  resur- 
rection. He  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  skeleton 
at  all. 


AT  TWENTY-TWO 

Narrow  as  the  womb,  deep  as  the  Pit,  and  dark  as  the  heart 
of  a  man. — Sotithal  Aliiier's  Proverb. 

^^  A    WEAVER  went  out  to  reap  but  stayed  to 
t\     unravel  the  corn-stalks.     Ha!    Ha!    Ha! 
Is  there  any  sense  in  a  weaver?" 

Janki  Meah  glared  at  Kundoo,  but,  as  Janki 
Meah  was  blind,  Kundoo  was  not  impressed. 
He  had  come  to  argue  with  Janki  Meah,  and,  if 
chance  favored,  to  make  love  to  the  old  man's 
pretty  young  wife. 

This  was  Kundoo's  grievance,  and  he  spoke  in 
the  name  of  all  the  five  men  who,  with  Janki 
Meah,  composed  the  gang  in  Number  Seven  gal- 
lery of  Twenty-Two.  Janki  Meah  had  been  blind 
for  the  thirty  years  during  which  he  had  served 
the  Jimahari  Collieries  with  pick  and  crowbar. 
All  through  those  thirty  years  he  had  regularly, 
every  morning  before  going  down,  drawn  from 
the  overseer  his  allowance  of  lamp-oil — just  as  if 
he  had  been  an  eyed  miner.  What  Kundoo's 
gang  resented,  as  hundreds  of  gangs  had  re- 
sented before,  was  Janki  Meah's  selfishness.  He 
would  not  add  the  oil  to  the  common  stock  of 
his  gang,  but  would  save  and  sell  it. 
107 


io8  Indiajt  Tales 

"I  knew  these  workings  before  you  were 
born,"  Janki  Meah  used  to  reply:  "  I  don't  want 
the  light  to  get  my  coal  out  by,  and  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  help  you.  The  oil  is  mine,  and  1  intend 
to  keep  it." 

A  strange  man  in  many  ways  was  Janki  Meah, 
the  white-haired,  hot  tempered,  sightless  weaver 
who  had  turned  pitman.  All  day  long — except 
on  Sundays  and  Mondays  when  he  was  usually 
drunk — he  worked  in  the  Twenty-Two  shaft  of 
the  Jimahari  Colliery  as  cleverly  as  a  man  with 
all  the  senses.  At  evening  he  went  up  in  the 
great  steam-hauled  cage  to  the  pit-bank,  and 
there  called  for  his  pony — a  rusty,  coal-dusty 
beast,  nearly  as  old  as  Janki  Meah.  The  pony 
would  come  to  his  side,  and  Janki  Meah  would 
clamber  on  to  its  back  and  be  taken  at  cnce  to 
the  plot  of  land  which  he,  like  the  other  miners, 
received  from  the  Jimahari  Company.  The  pony 
knew  that  place,  and  when,  after  six  years,  the 
Company  changed  all  the  allotments  to  prevent 
the  miners  from  acquiring  proprietary  rights, 
Janki  Meah  represented,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
that  were  his  holdings  shifted,  he  would  never 
be  able  to  fmd  his  way  to  the  new  one.  "My 
horse  only  knows  that  place,"  pleaded  Janki 
Meah,  and  so  he  was  allowed  to  keep  his  land. 

On  the  strength  of  this  concession  and  his  ac- 
cumulated oil-savings,  Janki  Meah  took  a  second 


At  Twentv-Two  109 

wife — a  girl  of  the  Jolaha  main  stock  of  the 
Meahs,  and  singularly  beautiful.  Janki  Meah 
could  not  see  her  beauty;  wherefore  he  took  her 
on  trust,  and  forbade  her  to  go  down  the  pit. 
He  had  not  worked  for  thirty  years  in  the  dark 
without  knowing  that  the  pit  was  no  place  for 
pretty  women.  He  loaded  her  with  ornaments 
— not  brass  or  pewter,  but  real  silver  ones — and 
she  rewarded  him  by  flirting  outrageously  with 
Kundoo  of  Number  Seven  gallery  gang.  Kundoo 
was  really  the  gang-head,  but  Janki  Meah  insisted 
upon  all  the  work  being  entered  in  his  own 
name,  and  chose  the  men  that  he  worked  with. 
Custom — stronger  even  than  the  Jimahari  Com- 
pany— dictated  that  Janki,  by  right  of  his  years, 
should  manage  these  things,  and  should,  also, 
work  despite  his  blindness.  In  Indian  mines 
where  they  cut  into  the  solid  coal  with  the  pick 
and  clear  it  out  from  floor  to  ceiling,  he  could 
come  to  no  great  harm.  At  Home,  where  they 
undercut  the  coal  and  bring  it  down  in  crashing 
avalanches  from  the  roof,  he  would  never  have 
been  allowed  to  set  foot  in  a  pit.  He  was  not  a 
popular  man,  because  of  his  oil-savings  ;  but  all 
the  gangs  admitted  that  Janki  knew  all  the  A7?^r/5, 
or  workings,  that  had  ever  been  sunk  or  worked 
since  the  Jimahari  Company  first  started  oper- 
ations on  the  Tarachunda  fields. 

Pretty  little  Unda  only  knew  that  her  old  hus- 


no  Indian  Tales 

band  was  a  fool  who  could  be  managed.  She 
took  no  interest  in  the  collieries  except  in  so  far 
as  they  swallowed  up  Kundoo  five  days  out  of 
the  seven,  and  covered  him  with  coal-dust. 
Kundoo  was  a  great  workman,  and  did  his  best 
not  to  get  drunk,  because,  when  he  had  saved 
forty  rupees,  Unda  was  to  steal  everything  that 
she  could  find  in  Janki's  house  and  run  with 
Kundoo  to  a  land  where  there  were  no  mines, 
and  every  one  kept  three  fat  bullocks  and  a 
milch-buffalo.  While  this  scheme  ripened  it  was 
his  custom  to  drop  in  upon  Janki  and  worry  him 
about  the  oil  savings.  Unda  sat  in  a  corner  and 
nodded  approval.  On  the  night  when  Kundoo 
had  quoted  that  objectionable  proverb  about 
weavers,  Janki  grew  angry. 

"Listen,  you  pig,"  said  he,  "blind  I  am,  and 
old  I  am,  but,  before  ever  you  were  born,  I  was 
grey  among  the  coal.  Even  in  the  days  when 
the  Twenty-Two  khad  was  unsunk  and  there 
were  not  two  thousand  men  here,  I  was  known 
to  have  all  knowledge  of  the  pits.  What  khad 
is  there  that  1  do  not  know,  from  the  bottom  of 
the  shaft  to  the  end  of  the  last  drive  ?  Is  it  the 
Baromba  khad,  the  oldest,  or  the  Twenty-Two 
where  Tibu's  gallery  runs  up  to  Number  Five?" 

"Hear  the  old  fool  talk!"  said  Kundoo,  nod- 
ding to  Unda.  "No  gallery  of  Twenty-Two 
will  cut  into  Five  before  the  end  of  the  Rains. 


At  Jwenty-'Iwo  i  ii 

We  have  a  month's  solid  coal  before  us.  The 
Babuji  says  so." 

"Babuji!  Pigji!  Dogji!  What  do  these  fat 
slugs  from  Calcutta  know  ?  He  draws  and  draws 
and  draws,  and  talks  and  talks  and  talks,  and  his 
maps  are  all  wrong.  I,  Janki,  know  that  this  is 
so.  When  a  man  has  been  shut  up  in  the  dark 
for  thirty  years,  God  gives  him  knowledge.  The 
old  gallery  that  Tibu's  gang  made  is  not  six  feet 
from  Number  Five." 

"Without  doubt  God  gives  the  blind  knowl- 
edge," said  Kundoo,  with  a  look  at  Unda.  "  Let 
it  be  as  you  say.  I,  for  my  part,  do  not  know 
where  lies  the  gallery  of  Tibu's  gang,  but  /  am 
not  a  withered  monkey  who  needs  oil  to  grease 
his  joints  with." 

Kundoo  swung  out  of  the  hut  laughing,  and 
Unda  giggled.  Janki  turned  his  sightless  eyes 
toward  his  wife  and  swore.  *'l  have  land,  and 
1  have  sold  a  great  deal  of  lamp-oil,"  mused 
Janki;  "but  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  this  child." 

A  week  later  the  Rains  set  in  with  a  venge- 
ance, and  the  gangs  paddled  about  in  coal-slush 
at  the  pit-banks.  Then  the  big  mine-pumps 
were  made  ready,  and  the  Manager  of  the  Col- 
liery ploughed  through  the  wet  toward  the  Tara- 
chunda  River  swelling  between  its  soppy  banks. 
"Lord  send  that  this  beastly  beck  doesn't  mis- 
behave," said  the  Manager,  piously,  and  he  wertf 


112  Indian  Tales 

to  take  counsel  with  his  Assistant  about  the 
pumps. 

But  the  Tarachunda  misbehaved  very  much  in- 
deed. After  a  fall  of  three  inches  of  rain  in  an 
hour  it  was  obliged  to  do  something.  It  topped 
its  bank  and  joined  the  flood  water  that  was 
hemmed  between  two  low  hills  just  where  the 
embankment  of  the  Colliery  main  line  crossed. 
When  a  large  part  of  a  rain-fed  river,  and  a  few 
acres  of  flood-water,  made  a  dead  set  for  a  nine- 
foot  culvert,  the  culvert  may  spout  its  finest,  but 
the  water  cannot  all  get  out.  The  Manager 
pranced  upon  one  leg  with  excitement,  and  his 
language  was  improper. 

He  had  reason  to  swear,  because  he  knew  that 
one  inch  of  water  on  land  meant  a  pressure  of 
one  hundred  tons  to  the  acre;  and  here  were 
about  five  feet  of  water  forming,  behind  the  rail- 
way embankment,  over  the  shallower  workings 
of  Twenty-Two.  You  must  understand  that,  in  a 
coal-mine,  the  coal  nearest  the  surface  is  worked 
first  from  the  central  shaft.  That  is  to  say,  the 
miners  may  clear  out  the  stuff  to  within  ten, 
twenty,  or  thirty  feet  of  the  surface,  and,  when 
all  is  worked  out,  leave  only  a  skin  of  earth  up- 
held by  some  few  pillars  of  coal.  In  a  deep  mine 
where  they  know  that  they  have  any  amount  of 
material  at  hand,  men  prefer  to  get  all  their  min- 
eral out  at  one  shaft,  rather  than  make  a  number 


At  Twenty-Two  113 

of  little  holes  to  tap  the  comparatively  unimpor- 
tant surface-coal. 

And  the  Manager  watched  the  flood. 

The  culvert  spouted  a  nine-foot  gush;  but  the 
water  still  formed,  and  word  was  sent  to  clear 
the  men  out  of  Twenty-Two,  The  cages  came 
up  crammed  and  crammed  again  with  the  men 
nearest  the  pit-eye,  as  they  call  the  place  where 
you  can  see  daylight  from  the  bottom  of  the 
m.ain  shaft.  All  away  and  away  up  the  long 
black  galleries  the  flare-lamps  were  winking  and 
dancing  like  so  many  fireflies,  and  the  men  and 
the  women  waited  for  the  clanking,  rattling, 
thundering  cages  to  come  down  and  fly  up  again. 
But  the  outworkings  were  very  far  off,  and  word 
could  not  be  passed  quickly,  though  the  heads 
of  the  gangs  and  the  Assistant  shouted  and  swore 
and  tramped  and  stumbled.  The  Manager  kept 
one  eye  on  the  great  troubled  pool  behind  the 
embankment,  and  prayed  that  the  culvert  would 
give  way  and  let  the  water  through  in  time. 
With  the  other  eye  he  watched  the  cages  come 
up  and  saw  the  headmen  counting  the  roll  of  the 
gangs.  With  all  his  heart  and  soul  he  swore 
at  the  winder  who  controlled  the  iron  drum  that 
wound  up  the  wire  rope  on  which  hung  the 
cages. 

In  a  little  time  there  was  a  down-draw  in  the 
water  behind  the  embankment — a  sucking  whirl- 


114  Indian    Tales 

pool,  all  yellow  and  yeasty.  The  water  had 
smashed  through  the  skin  of  the  earth  and  was 
pouring  into  the  old  shallow  workings  of  Twenty- 
Two. 

Deep  down  below,  a  rush  of  black  water 
caught  the  last  gang  waiting  for  the  cage,  and  as 
they  clambered  in,  the  whirl  was  about  their 
waists.  The  cage  reached  the  pit-bank,  and  the 
Manager  called  the  roll.  The  gangs  were  all 
safe  except  Gang  Janki,  Gang  Mogul,  and  Gang 
Rahim,  eighteen  men,  with  perhaps  ten  basket- 
women  who  loaded  the  coal  into  the  little  iron 
carriages  that  ran  on  the  tramways  of  the  main 
galleries.  These  gangs  were  in  the  out-work- 
ings, three-quarters  of  a  mile  away,  on  the  ex- 
treme fringe  of  the  mine.  Once  more  the  cage 
went  down,  but  with  only  two  English  men  in 
it,  and  dropped  into  a  swirling,  roaring  current 
that  had  almost  touched  the  roof  of  some  of  the 
lower  side-galleries.  One  of  the  wooden  balks 
with  which  they  had  propped  the  old  work- 
ings shot  past  on  the  current,  just  missing  the 
cage. 

"  If  we  don't  want  our  ribs  knocked  out,  we'd 
better  go,"  said  the  Manager.  "We  can't  even 
save  the  Company's  props." 

The  cage  drew  out  of  the  water  with  a  splash, 
and  a  few  minutes  later,  it  was  officially  reported 
that  there  were  at  least  ten  feet  of  water  in  the 


At  Twenty-Two  115 

pit's  eye.  Now  ten  feet  of  water  there  meant 
that  all  other  places  in  the  mine  were  flooded  ex- 
cept such  galleries  as  were  more  than  ten  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  The 
deep  workings  would  be  full,  the  main  galleries 
would  be  full,  but  in  the  high  workings  reached 
by  inclines  from  the  main  roads,  there  would  be 
a  certain  amount  of  air  cut  off,  so  to  speak,  by 
the  water  and  squeezed  up  by  it.  The  little 
science-primers  explain  how  water  behaves  when 
you  pour  it  down  test-tubes.  The  Hooding  of 
Twenty-Two  was  an  illustration  on  a  large 
scale. 


"By  the  Holy  Grove,  what  has  happened  to 
the  air!"  It  was  a  Sonthal  gangman  of  Gang 
Mogul  in  Number  Nine  gallery,  and  he  was  driv- 
ing a  six-foot  way  through  the  coal.  Then 
there  was  a  rush  from  the  other  galleries,  and 
Gang  Janki  and  Gang  Rahim  stumbled  up  with 
their  basket-women. 

"Water  has  come  in  the  mine,"  they  said, 
"  and  there  is  no  way  of  getting  out." 

"  1  went  down,"  said  Janki — "  down  the  slope 
of  my  gallery,  and  I  felt  the  water." 

"There  has  been  no  water  in  the  cutting  in 
our  time,"  clamored  the  women.  "Why  can- 
not we  go  away  ?" 


ii6  Indian  Tales 

"Be  silent!"  said  Janki.  "Long  ago,  when 
my  father  was  here,  water  came  to  Ten — no, 
Eleven — cutting,  and  there  was  great  trouble. 
Let  us  get  away  to  where  the  air  is  better." 

The  three  gangs  and  the  basket-women  left 
Number  Nine  gallery  and  went  further  up  Num- 
ber Sixteen.  At  one  turn  of  the  road  they  could 
see  the  pitchy  black  water  lapping  on  the  coal. 
It  had  touched  the  roof  of  a  gallery  that  they 
knew  well — a  gallery  where  they  used  to  smoke 
their  hiiqas  and  manage  their  flirtations.  Seeing 
this,  they  called  aloud  upon  their  Gods,  and  the 
Mehas,  who  are  thrice  bastered  Muhammadans, 
strove  to  recollect  the  name  of  the  Prophet. 
They  came  to  a  great  open  square  whence  nearly 
all  the  coal  had  been  extracted.  It  was  the  end 
of  the  out-workings,  and  the  end  of  the  mine. 

Far  away  down  the  gallery  a  small  pumping- 
e'lgine,  used  for  keeping  dry  a  deep  working  and 
fed  with  steam  from  above,  was  throbbing  faith- 
fully.    They  heard  it  cease. 

"They  have  cut  off  the  steam,"  said  Kundoo, 
hopefully.  "They  have  given  the  order  to  use 
a!r  the  steam  for  the  pit-bank  pumps.  They  will 
clear  out  the  water." 

"If  the  water  has  reached  the  smoking-gal- 
lery,"  said  Janki,  "all  the  Company's  pumps  can 
do-nothing  for  three  days." 

"It  is  very  hot,"  moaned  Jasoda,  the  Meah 


At  Twenty-Two  117 

basket-woman.  "There  is  a  very  bad  air  here 
because  of  the  lamps." 

"Put  them  out,"  said  Janki;  "why  do  you 
want  lamps  }  "  The  lamps  were  put  out  and  the 
company  sat  still  in  the  utter  dark.  Somebody 
rose  quietly  and  began  walking  over  the  coals. 
It  was  Janki,  who  was  touching  the  walls  with 
his  hands.  "Where  is  the  ledge.?"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself. 

"  Sit,  sit!  "  said  Kundoo.  "  If  we  die,  we  die. 
The  air  is  very  bad." 

But  Janki  still  stumbled  and  crept  and  tapped 
with  his  pick  upon  the  walls.  The  women  rose 
to  their  feet. 

"Stay  all  where  you  are.  Without  the  lamps 
you  cannot  see,  and  1 — 1  am  always  seeing,"  said 
Janki.  Then  he  paused,  and  called  out:  "Oh, 
you  who  have  been  in  the  cutting  more  than  ten 
years,  what  is  the  name  of  this  open  place  ?  I 
am  an  old  man  and  I  have  forgotten." 

"Bullia's  Room,"  answered  the  Sonthal,  who 
had  complained  of  the  vileness  of  the  air. 

"  Again,"  said  Janki, 

"  Bullia's  Room." 

"Then  I  have  found  it,"  said  Janki.  "The 
name  only  had  slipped  my  memory.  Tibu's 
gang's  gallery  is  here." 

"A  lie,"  said  Kundoo.  "There  have  been  no 
galleries  in  this  place  since  my  day." 


ii8  Indian  Tales 

"Three  paces  was  the  depth  of  the  ledge," 
muttered  Janki,  without  heeding — "and — oh,  my 
poor  bones! — I  have  found  it!  It  is  here,  up  this 
ledge.  Come  all  you,  one  by  one,  to  the  place  of 
my  voice,  and  I  will  count  you." 

There  was  a  rush  in  the  dark,  and  Janki  felt  the 
first  man's  face  hit  his  knees  as  the  Sonthal 
scrambled  up  the  ledge. 

"Who.?"  cried  Janki. 

"I,  Sunua  Manji." 

"  Sit  you  down,"  said  Janki.     "  Who  next  ? " 

One  by  one  the  women  and  the  men  crawled 
up  the  ledge  which  ran  along  one  side  of  "  Bul- 
lia's  Room."  Degraded  Muhammadan,  pig-eat- 
ing Musahr  and  wild  Sonthal,  Janki  ran  his  hand 
over  them  all. 

"Now  follow  after,"  said  he,  "catching  hold 
of  my  heel,  and  the  women  catching  the  men's 
clothes."  He  did  not  ask  whether  the  men  had 
brought  their  picks  with  them.  A  miner,  black 
or  white,  does  not  drop  his  pick.  One  by  one, 
Janki  leading,  they  crept  into  the  old  gallery — a 
six-foot  way  with  a  scant  four  feet  from  thill  to 
roof. 

"The  air  is  better  here,"  said  Jasoda.  They 
could  hear  her  heart  beating  in  thick,  sick  bumps. 

"Slowly,  slowly,"  said  Janki.  "I  am  an  old 
man,  and  I  forget  many  things.  This  is  Tibu's 
gallery,  but  where  are  the  four  bricks  where  they 


At  Twenty-Two  119 

used  to  put  their  hiiqa  fire  on  when  the  Sahibs 
never  saw  ?  Slowly,  slowly,  O  you  people  be- 
hind." 

They  heard  his  hands  disturbing  the  small  coal 
on  the  floor  of  the  gallery  and  then  a  dull  sound. 
"This  is  one  unbaked  brick,  and  this  is  another 
and  another.  Kundoo  is  a  young  man — let  him 
come  forward.  Put  a  knee  upon  this  brick  and 
strike  here.  When  Tibu's  gang  were  at  dinner 
on  the  last  day  before  the  good  coal  ended,  they 
heard  the  men  of  Five  on  the  other  side,  and  Five 
worked  their  gallery  two  Sundays  later — or  it 
may  have  been  one.  Strike  there,  Kundoo,  but 
give  me  room  to  go  back." 

Kundoo,  doubting,  drove  the  pick,  but  the  first 
soft  crush  of  the  coal  was  a  call  to  him.  He  was 
fighting  for  his  life  and  for  Unda — pretty  little 
Unda  with  rings  on  all  her  toes — for  Unda  and 
the  forty  rupees.  The  women  sang  the  Song  of 
the  Pick — the  terrible,  slow,  swinging  melody 
with  the  muttered  chorus  that  repeats  the  sliding 
of  the  loosened  coal,  and,  to  each  cadence, 
Kundoo  smote  in  the  black  dark.  When  he 
could  do  no  more,  Sunua  Manji  took  the  pick, 
and  struck  for  his  life  and  his  wife,  and  his  vil- 
lage beyond  the  blue  hills  over  the  Tarachunda 
River.  An  hour  the  men  worked,  and  then  the 
women  cleared  away  the  coal. 

"It    is   farther   than   I   thought,"   said  Janki. 


1 20  Indian   Tales 

"The  air  is  very  bad;  but  strike,  Kundoo,  strike 
hard." 

For  the  fifth  time  Kundoo  took  up  the  pick 
as  the  Sonthal  crawled  back.  The  song  had 
scarcely  recommenced  when  it  was  broken  by  a 
yell  from  Kundoo  that  echoed  down  the  gallery: 
"Par  htta!  Par  hiia!  We  are  through,  we 
are  through!"  The  imprisoned  air  in  the  mine 
shot  through  the  opening,  and  the  women  at  the 
far  end  of  the  gallery  heard  the  water  rush 
through  the  pillars  of  "  Bullia's  Room"  and  roar 
against  the  ledge.  Having  fulfilled  the  law  under 
which  it  worked,  it  rose  no  farther.  The  women 
screamed  and  pressed  forward.  "  The  water  has 
come — we  shall  be  killed!     Let  us  go." 

Kundoo  crawled  through  the  gap  and  found 
himself  in  a  propped  gallery  by  the  simple  proc- 
ess of  hitting  his  head  against  a  beam. 

"  Do  1  know  the  pits  or  do  I  not.^"  chuckled 
Janki.  "This  is  the  Number  Five;  go  you  out 
slowly,  giving  me  your  names.  Ho!  Rahim, 
count  your  gang!  Now  let  us  go  forward,  each 
catching  hold  of  the  other  as  before." 

They  formed  a  line  in  the  darkness  and  Janki 
led  them — for  a  pit-man  in  a  strange  pit  is  only 
one  degree  less  liable  to  err  than  an  ordinary 
mortal  underground  for  the  first  time.  At  last 
they  saw  a  flare-lamp,  and  Gangs  Janki,  Mogul, 
and  Rahim  of  Twenty-Two  stumbled  dazed  into 


At  Twenty-Two  121 

the  glare  of  the  draught-furnace  at  the  bottom 
of  Five;  Janki  feeling  his  way  and  the  rest  be- 
hind. 

"Water  has  come  into  Twenty-Two.  God 
knows  where  are  the  others.  I  have  brought 
these  men  from  Tibu's  gallery  in  our  cutting; 
making  connection  through  the  north  side  of 
the  gallery.  Take  us  to  the  cage,"  said  Janki 
Meah. 


At  the  pit-bank  of  Twenty-Two,  some  thou- 
sand people  clamored  and  wept  and  shouted. 
One  hundred  men  —  one  thousand  men  —  had 
been  drowned  in  the  cutting.  They  would  all 
go  to  their  homes  to-morrow.  Where  were 
their  men  }  Little  Unda,  her  cloth  drenched  with 
the  rain,  stood  at  the  pit-mouth  calling  down  the 
shaft  for  Kundoo.  They  had  swung  the  cages 
clear  of  the  mouth,  and  her  only  answer  was  the 
murmur  of  the  flood  in  the  pit's  eye  two  hundred 
and  sixty  feet  below. 

"Look  after  that  woman!  She'll  chuck  her- 
self down  the  shaft  in  a  minute,"  shouted  the 
Manager. 

But  he  need   not  have  troubled;    Unda  v/ac 
afraid   of  Death.      She   wanted   Kundoo.     The, 
Assistant  was   watching  the  flood   and   seeing 
how  far  he  could  wade  into  it.     There  was  a  luU 


122  .  Indian  Talei> 

in  the  water,  and  the  whirlpool  had  slackened. 
The  mine  was  full,  and  the  people  at  the  pit- 
bank  howled. 

"My  faith,  we  shall  be  lucky  if  we  have  five 
hundred  hands  on  the  place  to-morrow!  "  said  the 
Manager.  "There's  some  chance  yet  of  running 
a  temporary  dam  across  that  water.  Shove  in 
anything — tubs  and  bullock-carts  if  you  haven't 
enough  bricks.  Make  them  work  now  if  they 
never  worked  before.  Hi!  you  gangers,  make 
them  work." 

Little  by  little  the  crowd  was  broken  into  de- 
tachments, and  pushed  toward  the  water  with 
promises  of  overtime.  The  dam-making  began, 
and  when  it  was  fairly  under  way,  the  Manager 
thought  that  the  hour  had  come  for  the  pumps. 
There  was  no  fresh  inrush  into  the  mine.  The 
tall,  red,  iron-clamped  pump-beam  rose  and  fell, 
and  the  pumps  snored  and  guttered  and  shrieked 
as  the  first  water  poured  out  of  the  pipe. 

"  We  must  run  her  all  to-night,"  said  the  Man- 
ager, wearily,  "but  there's  no  hope  for  the  poor 
devils  down  below.  Look  here,  Gur  Sahai,  if 
you  are  proud  of  your  engines,  show  me  what 
they  can  do  now." 

Gur  Sahai  grinned  and  nodded,  with  his  right 
hand  upon  the  lever  and  an  oil-can  in  his  left. 
He  could  do  no  more  than  he  was  doing,  but  he 
could   keep   that   up  till  the  dawn.     Were   the 


At  Twenty-Two  123 

Company's  pumps  to  be  beaten  by  the  vagaries 
of  that  troublesome  Tarachunda  River  ?  Never, 
never!  And  the  pumps  sobbed  and  panted: 
"Never,  never!"  The  Manager  sat  in  the  shel- 
ter of  the  pit-bank  roofing,  trying  to  dry  him- 
self by  the  pump-boiler  fire,  and,  in  the  dreary 
dusk,  he  saw  the  crov^ds  on  the  dam  scatter  and 
fly. 

"That's  the  end,"  he  groaned.  '"Twill  take 
us  six  weeks  to  persuade  'em  that  we  haven't 
tried  to  drown  their  mates  on  purpose.  Oh,  for 
a  decent,  rational  Geordie!" 

But  the  flight  had  no  panic  in  it.  Men  had 
run  over  from  Five  with  astounding  news,  and 
the  foremen  could  not  hold  their  gangs  together. 
Presently,  surrounded  by  a  clamorous  crew, 
Gangs  Rahim,  Mogul,  and  Janki,  and  ten  basket- 
women,  walked  up  to  report  themselves,  and 
pretty  little  Unda  stole  away  to  Janki's  hut  to 
prepare  his  evening  meal. 

"Alone  1  found  the  way,"  explained  Janki 
Meah,  "and  now  will  the  Company  give  me 
pension  ?" 

The  simple  pit-folk  shouted  and  leaped  and 
went  back  to  the  dam,  reassured  in  their  old  be- 
lief that,  whatever  happened,  so  great  was  the 
power  of  the  Company  whose  salt  they  ate, 
none  of  them  could  be  killed.  But  Gur  Sahai 
only  bared  his  white  teeth  and  kept  his  hand 


124  Indian  Tales 

upon  the  lever  and  proved  his  pumps  to  the  ut- 
termost. 


"I  say,"  said  the  Assistant  to  the  Manager,  a 
week  latei,  "do  you  recollect  Germinal  ? " 

"Yes.  'Queer  thing.  1  thought  of  it  in  the 
cage  when  that  balk  went  by.     Why  ?  " 

"Oh,  this  business  seems  to  be  Germinal  up- 
side down.  Janki  was  in  my  veranda  all  this 
morning,  telling  me  that  Kundoo  had  eloped 
with  his  wife — Unda  or  Anda,  I  think  her  name 
was." 

"Hillo!  And  those  were  the  cattle  that  you 
risked  your  life  to  clear  out  of  Twenty-Two! " 

"No — I  was  thinking  of  the  Company's  props, 
not  the  Company's  men." 

"  Sounds  better  to  say  so  now;  but  1  don't  be- 
lieve you,  old  fellow." 


THE  COURTING  OF  DINAH  SHADD 

What  did  the  colonel's  lady  think  ? 

Nobody  never  knew. 
Somebody  asked  the  sergeant's  wife 

An'  she  told  'em  true. 
When  you  git  to  a  man  in  the  case 

They're  like  a  row  o'  pins, 
For  the  colonel's  lady  an'  Judy  O'Grady 

Are  sisters  under  their  skins. 

Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

ALL  day  I  had  followed  at  the  heels  of  a  pur- 
suing arrny  engaged  on  one  of  the  finest 
battles  that  ever  camp  of  exercise  beheld.  Thirty 
thousand  troops  had  by  the  wisdom  of  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  been  turned  loose  over  a  few 
thousand  square  miles  of  country  to  practice  in 
peace  what  they  would  nevei  attempt  in  war. 
Consequently  cavalry  charged  unshaken  infantry 
at  the  trot.  Infantry  captured  artillery  by  frontal 
attacks  delivered  in  line  of  quarter  columns,  and 
mounted  infantry  skirmished  up  to  the  wheels  of 
an  armored  train  which  carried  nothing  more 
deadly  than  a  twenty-five  pounder  Armstrong, 
two  Nordenfeldts,  and  a  few  score  volunteers  all 
cased  in  three-eighths-inch  boiler-plate.  Yet  it 
12; 


1 26  Indian  Tales 

was  a  very  lifelike  camp.  Operations  did  not 
cease  at  sundown;  nobody  knew  the  country 
and  nobody  spared  man  or  horse.  There  was 
unending  cavalry  scouting  and  almost  unending 
forced  work  ov6r  broken  ground.  The  Army  of 
the  South  had  finally  pierced  the  centre  of  the 
Army  of  the  North,  and  was  pouring  through  the 
gap  hot-foot  to  capture  a  city  of  strategic  im- 
portance. Its  front  extended  fanwise,  the  sticks 
being  represented  by  regiments  strung  out  along 
the  line  of  route  backward  to  the  divisional 
transport  columns  and  all  the  lumber  that  trails 
behind  an  army  on  the  move.  On  its  right  the 
broken  left  of  the  Army  of  the  North  was  flying 
in  mass,  chased  by  the  Southern  horse  and  ham- 
mered by  the  Southern  guns  till  these  had  been 
pushed  far  beyond  the  limitsof  their  last  support. 
Then  the  flying  sat  down  to  rest,  while  the  elated 
commandant  of  the  pursuing  force  telegraphed 
that  he  held  all  in  check  and  observation. 

Unluckily  he  did  not  observe  that  three  miles 
to  his  right  flank  a  flying  column  of  Northern 
horse  with  a  detachment  of  Ghoorkhas  and 
British  troops  had  been  pushed  round,  as  fast  as 
the  failing  light  allowed,  to  cut  across  the  entire 
rear  of  the  Southern  Army,  to  break,  as  it  were, 
all  the  ribs  of  the  fan  where  they  converged  by 
striking  at  the  transport,  reserve  ammunition,  and 
artillery  supplies.     Their  instructions  were  to  go 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  127 

in,  avoiding  tlie  few  scouts  wiio  migbit  not  liave 
been  drawn  off  by  tlie  pursuit,  and  create  sutfi- 
cient  excitement  to  impress  the  Southern  Army 
with  the  wisdom  of  guarding  their  own  flank 
and  rear  before  they  captured  cities.  It  was  a 
pretty  manoeuvre,  neatly  carried  out. 

Speaking  for  the  second  division  of  the  South- 
ern Army,  our  first  intimation  of  the  attack  was 
at  twilight,  when  the  artillery  were  laboring  in 
deep  sand,  most  of  the  escort  were  trying  to  help 
them  out,  and  the  main  body  of  the  infantry  had 
gone  on.  A  Noah's  Ark  of  elephants,  camels, 
and  the  mixed  menagerie  of  an  Indian  transport- 
train  bubbled  and  squealed  behind  the  guns, 
when  there  appeared  from  nowhere  in  particular 
British  infantry  to  the  extent  of  three  companies, 
who  sprang  to  the  heads  of  the  gun-horses  and 
brought  all  to  a  standstill  amid  oaths  and  cheers. 

"How's  that,  umpire.?"  said  the  major  com- 
manding the  attack,  and  with  one  voice  the 
drivers  and  limber  gunners  answered  "Hout!" 
while  the  colonel  of  artillery  sputtered. 

"  All  your  scouts  are  charging  our  main  body," 
said  the  major.  "Your  flanks  are  unprotected 
for  two  miles.  I  think  we've  broken  the  back  of 
this  division.  And  listen, — there  go  the  Ghoor- 
khas!" 

A  weak  fire  broke  from  the  rear-guard  more 
than  a  mile  away,  and  was  answered  by  cheerful 


128  Indian  Tales 

bowlings.  The  Ghoorkhas,  who  should  have 
swung  clear  of  the  second  division,  had  stepped 
on  its  tail  in  the  dark,  but  drawing  off  hastened 
to  reach  the  next  line  of  attack,  which  lay  almost 
parallel  to  us  five  or  six  miles  away. 

Our  column  swayed  and  surged  irresolutely, — 
three  batteries,  the  divisional  ammunition  reserve, 
the  baggage,  and  a  section  of  the  hospital  and 
bearer  corps.  The  commandant  ruefully  prom- 
ised to  report  himself  "cut  up  "to  the  nearest 
umpire,  and  commending  his  cavalry  and  all 
other  cavalry  to  the  special  care  of  Eblis,  toiled 
on  to  resume  touch  with  the  rest  of  the  division. 

"We'll  bivouac  here  to-night,"  said  the  major, 
"I  have  a  notion  that  the  Ghoorkhas  will  get 
caught.  They  may  want  us  to  re-form  on. 
Stand  easy  till  the  transport  gets  away." 

A  hand  caught  my  beast's  bridle  and  led  him 
out  of  the  choking  dust;  a  larger  hand  deftly 
canted  me  out  of  the  saddle;  and  two  of  the 
hugest  hands  in  the  world  received  me  sliding. 
Pleasant  is  the  lot  of  the  special  correspondent 
who  falls  into  such  hands  as  those  of  Privates 
Mulvaney,  Ortheris,  and  Learoyd. 

"  An'  that's  all  right,"  said  the  Irishman,  calmly. 
"We  thought  we'd  find  you  somewheres  here  by. 
Is  there  anything  av  yours  in  the  transport? 
Orth'ris'll  fetch  ut  out." 

Ortheris  did  "fetch  ut  out,"  from  under  the 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  129 

trunk  of  an  elephant,  in  the  shape  of  a  servant 
and  an  animal  both  laden  with  medical  comforts. 
The  little  man's  eyes  sparkled. 

•'  If  the  brutil  an'  licentious  soldiery  av  these 
parts  gets  sight  av  the  thruck,"  said  Mulvaney, 
making  practiced  investigation,  "they'll  loot 
ev'rything.  They're  bein'  fed  on  iron-filin's  an' 
dog-biscuit  these  days,  but  glory's  no  compensa- 
tion for  a  belly-ache.  Praise  be,  we're  here  to 
protect  you,  sorr.  Beer,  sausage,  bread  (soft  an' 
that's  a  cur'osity),  soup  in  2  tin,  whisky  by  the 
smell  av  ut,  an'  fowls!  Mother  av  Moses,  but  ye 
take  the  field  like  a  confectioner!  'Tis  scan- 
d'lus." 

" 'Ere's  a  orficer,"  said  Ortheris,  significantly. 
"When  the  sergent's  done  lushin'  the  privit  rnay 
clean  the  pot." 

I  bundled  several  things  into  Mulvaney's  haver- 
sack before  the  major's  hand  fell  on  my  shoulder 
and  he  said,  tenderly,  "  Requisitioned  for  the 
Queen's  service  Wolseley  was  quite  wrong 
about  special  correspondents:  they  are  the  sol- 
dier's best  friends.  Come  and  take  pot-luck 
with  us  to-night." 

And  so  it  happened  amid  laughter  and  shout- 
ings that  my  well-considered  commissariat  melted 
away  to  reappear  later  at  the  mess-table,  which 
was  a  waterproof  sheet  spread  on  the  ground. 
The  flying  column  had  taken  three  days'  rations 


I30  Indian  Tales 

with  it,  and  there  be  few  things  nastier  than 
government  rations — especially  when  govern- 
ment is  experimenting  with  German  toys. 
Erbsenwurst,  tinned  beef  of  surpassing  tin- 
niness^  compressed  vegetables,  and  meat-bis- 
cuits may  be  nourishing,  but  what  Thomas 
Atkins  needs  is  bulk  in  his  inside.  The  major, 
assisted  by  his  brother  officers,  purchased  goats 
for  the  camp  and  so  made  the  experiment  of 
no  effect.  Long  before  the  fatigue-party  sent 
to  collect  brushwood  had  returned,  the  men  were 
settled  down  by  their  valises,  kettles  and  pots 
had  appeared  from  the  surrounding  country  and 
were  dangling  over  fires  as  the  kid  and  the  com- 
pressed vegetable  bubbled  together;  there  rose 
a  cheerful  clinking  of  mess-tins;  outrageous  de- 
mands for  "a  little  more  stuffm'  with  that  there 
liver-wing;  "  and  gust  on  gust  of  chaff  as  pointed 
as  a  bayonet  and  as  delicate  as  a  gun-butt. 

"The  boys  are  in  a  good  temper,"  said  the 
major.  "  They'll  be  singing  presently.  Well,  a 
night  like  this  is  enough  to  keep  them  happy." 

Over  our  heads  burned  the  wonderful  Indian 
stars,  which  are  not  all  pricked  in  on  one  plane, 
but,  preserving  an  orderly  perspective,  draw  the 
eye  through  the  velvet  darkness  of  the  void  up 
to  the  barred  doors  of  heaven  itself.  The  earth 
was  a  grey  shadow  more  unreal  than  the  sky. 
We  could  hear  her  breathing  lightly  in  the  pauses 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  131 

between  the  howling  of  the  jackals,  the  move- 
ment of  the  wind  in  the  tamarisks,  and  the  fitful 
mutter  of  musketry-fire  leagues  away  to  the  left. 
A  native  woman  from  some  unseen  hut  began  to 
sing,  the  mail-train  thundered  past  on  its  way  to 
Delhi,  and  a  roosting  crow  cawed  drowsily. 
Then  there  was  a  belt-loosening  silence  about  the 
fires,  and  the  even  breathing  of  the  crowded 
earth  took  up  the  story. 

The  men,  full  fed,  turned  to  tobacco  and  song, 
— their  officers  with  them.  The  subaltern  is 
happy  who  can  win  the  approval  of  the  musical 
critics  in  his  regiment,  and  is  honored  among  the 
more  intricate  step-dancers.  By  him,  as  by  him 
who  plays  cricket  cleverly,  Thomas  Atkins  will 
stand  in  time  of  need,  when  he  will  let  a  better 
officer  go  on  alone.  The  ruined  tombs  of  for- 
gotten Mussulman  saints  heard  the  ballad  of 
Agra  Town,  The  Buffalo  Battery,  Marching  to 
Kabul,  The  long,  long  Indian  Day,  The  Place 
where  the  Punkah-coolie  died,  and  that  crashing 
chorus  which  announces, 

Youth's  daring  spirit,  manhood's  fire, 

Firm  hand  and  eagle  eye, 
Must  he  acquire  who  would  aspire 

To  see  the  grey  boar  die. 

To-day,  of  all  those  jovial  thieves  who  appro- 
priated my  commissariat  and  lay  and  laughed 
round  that  waterproof  sheet,  not  one  remains. 


^32  Indian   Tales 

They  went  to  camps  that  were  not  of  exercise 
and  battles  without  umpires.  Burmah,  the  Sou- 
dan, and  the  frontier, — fever  and  fight, — took 
them  in  their  time. 

I  drifted  across  to  the  men's  fires  in  search  of 
Mulvaney,  whom  I  found  strategically  greasing 
his  feet  by  the  blaze.  There  is  nothing  particu- 
larly lovely  in  the  sight  of  a  private  thus  engaged 
after  a  long  day's  march,  but  when  you  reflect  on 
the  exact  proportion  of  the  "might,  majesty, 
dominion,  and  power"  of  the  British  Empire 
which  stands  on  those  feet  you  take  an  interest 
in  the  proceedings. 

"  There's  a  blister,  bad  luck  to  ut,  on  the  heel," 
said  Mulvaney.  "  I  can't  touch  ut.  Prick  ut  out, 
little  man." 

Ortheris  took  out  his  house-wife,  eased  the 
trouble  with  a  needle,  stabbed  Mulvaney  in  the 
calf  with  the  same  weapon,  and  was  swiftly 
kicked  into  the  fire. 

"  I've  bruk  the  best  av  my  toes  over  you,  ye 
grinnin'  child  av  disruption,"  said  Mulvaney,  sit- 
ting cross-legged  and  nursing  his  feet;  then  see- 
ing me,  "Oh,  ut's  you,  sorr!  Be  welkim,  an' 
take  that  maraudin'  scutt's  place.  Jock,  hold 
him  down  on  the  cindhers  for  a  bit." 

But  Ortheris  escaped  and  went  elsewhere,  as  I 
took  possession  of  the  hollow  he  had  scraped  for 
himself  and  lined  with  his  greatcoat.     Learoyd 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  133 

on  the  other  side  of  the  fire  grinned  affably  and 
in  a  minute  fell  fast  asleep. 

"There's  the  height  av  politeness  for  you," 
said  Mulvaney,  lighting  his  pipe  with  a  flaming 
branch.  "But  Jock's  eaten  half  a  box  av  your 
sardines  at  wan  gulp,  an'  1  think  the  tin  too. 
What's  the  best  wid  you,  sorr,  an'  how  did  you 
happen  to  be  on  the  losin'  side  this  day  whin  we 
captured  you  ?  " 

"The  Army  of  the  South  is  winning  all  along 
the  line,"  1  said. 

"Then  that  line's  the  hangman's  rope,  savin' 
your  presence.  You'll  learn  to-morrow  how  we 
rethreated  to  dhraw  thim  on  before  we  made 
thim  trouble,  an'  that's  what  a  woman  does.  By 
the  same  tokin,  we'll  be  attacked  before  the 
dawnin'  an'  ut  would  be  betther  not  to  slip  your 
boots.  How  do  I  knov/  that }  By  the  light  av 
pure  reason.  Here  are  three  companies  av  us 
ever  so  far  inside  av  the  enemy's  flank  an'  a  crowd 
av  roarin',  tarin',  squealin'  cavalry  gone  on  just 
to  turn  out  the  whole  hornet's  nest  av  them.  Av 
course  the  enemy  will  pursue,  by  brigades  like  as 
not,  an'  thin  we'll  have  to  run  for  ut.  Mark  my 
words.  I  am  av  the  opinion  av  Polonius  whin 
he  said,  '  Don't  fight  wid  ivry  scutt  for  the  pure 
joy  av  fightin',  but  if  you  do,  knock  the  nose  av 
him  first  an'  frequint.'  We  ought  to  ha'  gone  on 
an'  helped  the  Ghoorkhas." 


134  Indian  Tales 

"  But  what  do  you  know  about  Polonius?"  1 
demanded.  This  was  a  new  side  of  Mulvaney's 
character. 

"All  that  Shakespeare  iver  wrote  an'  a  dale 
more  that  the  gallery  shouted,"  said  the  man  of 
war,  carefully  lacing  his  boots.  "  Did  I  not  tell 
you  av  Silver's  theatre  in  Dublin,  whin  I  was 
younger  than  1  am  now  an'  a  patron  av  the 
drama  ?  Ould  Silver  wud  never  pay  actor-man 
or  woman  their  just  dues,  an'  by  consequince  his 
comp'nies  was  collapsible  at  the  last  minut.  Thin 
the  bhoys  wud  clamor  to  take  a  part,  an"  oft  as 
not  ould  Silver  made  them  pay  for  the  fun. 
Faith,  I've  seen  Hamlut  played  wid  a  new  black 
eye  an'  the  queen  as  full  as  a  cornucopia.  I  re- 
mimber  wanst  Hogin  that  'listed  in  the  Black 
Tyrone  an'  was  shot  in  South  Africa,  he  sejuced 
ould  Silver  into  givin'  him  Hamlut's  part  instid 
av  me  that  had  a  fine  fancy  for  rhetoric  in  those 
days.  Av  course  1  wint  into  the  gallery  an'  be- 
gan to  fill  the  pit  wid  other  people's  hats,  an'  I 
passed  the  time  av  day  to  Hogin  walkin'  through 
Denmark  like  a  hamstrung  mule  wid  a  pall  on  his 
back.  'Hamlut,'  sez  I,  'there's  a  hole  in  your 
heel.  Pull  up  your  shtockin's,  Hamlut,'  sez  I. 
'  Hamlut,  Hamlut,  for  the  love  av  decincy  dhrop 
that  skull  an'  pull  up  your  shtockin's.'  The 
whole  house  begun  to  tell  him  that.  He  stopped 
his  soliloquishms  mid-between.     '  My  shtockin's 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  135 

may  be  comin'  down  or  they  may  not,'  sez  he, 
screwin'  his  eye  into  the  gallery,  for  well  he  knew 
who  I  was.  '  But  afther  this  performince  is  over 
me  an'  the  Ghost  '11  trample  the  tripes  out  av 
you,  Terence,  wid  your  ass's  bray!'  An'  that's 
how  I  come  to  know  about  Hamlut.  Eyah! 
Those  days,  those  days!  Did  you  iver  have 
onendin'  devilmint  an'  nothin'  to  pay  for  it  in 
your  life,  sorr  ?  " 

"Never,  without  having  to  pay,"  1  said. 

"  That's  thrue!  'Tis  mane  whin  you  considher 
en  ut;  but  ut's  the  same  wid  horse  or  fut.  A 
headache  if  you  dhrink,  an'  a  belly-ache  if  you 
eat  too  much,  an'  a  heart-ache  to  kape  all  down. 
Faith,  the  beast  only  gets  the  colic,  an'  he's  the 
lucky  man." 

He  dropped  his  head  and  stared  into  the  fire, 
fingering  his  moustache  the  while.  From  the 
far  side  of  the  bivouac  the  voice  of  Corbet-Nolan, 
senior  subaltern  of  B  Company,  uplifted  itself  in 
an  ancient  and  much  appreciated  song  of  senti- 
ment, the  men  moaning  melodiously  behind  him. 

The  north  wind  blew  coldly,  she  dropped  from  that  hour. 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  sweet  little  Kathleen, 
Kathleen,  my  Kathleen,  Kathleen  O'Moore ! 

With  forty-five  O's  in  the  last  word:  even  at 
that  distance  you  might  have  cut  the  soft  South 
Irish  accent  with  a  shovel. 


1 36  Indian    Tales 

"  For  all  we  take  we  must  pay,  but  the  price 
is  cruel  high,"  murmured  Mulvaney  when  the 
chorus  had  ceased. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  1  said  gently,  for  1 
knew  that  he  was  a  man  of  an  inextinguishable 
sorrow. 

"  Hear  now,"  said  he.  "  Ye  know  what  I  am 
now.  /  know  what  I  mint  to  be  at  the  beginnin' 
av  my  service.  I've  tould  you  tim.e  an'  again,  an* 
what  I  have  not  Dinah  Shadd  has.  An'  what  am 
1  ?  Oh,  Mary  Mother  av  Hiven,  an  ould  dhrunken, 
untrustable  baste  av  a  privit  that  has  seen  the 
reg'ment  change  out  from  colonel  to  drummer- 
boy,  not  wanst  or  twice,  but  scores  av  times! 
Ay,  scores!  An'  me  not  so  near  gettin'  promo- 
tion as  in  the  first!  An'  me  livin'  on  an'  kapin' 
clear  av  clink,  not  by  my  own  good  conduck,  but 
the  kindness  av  some  orf'cer-bhoy  young  enough 
to  be  son  to  me!  Do  1  not  know  ut.^  Can  I  not 
tell  whin  I'm  passed  over  at  p'rade,  tho'  I'm 
rockin'  full  av  liquor  an'  ready  to  fall  all  in  wan 
piece,  such  as  even  a  suckin'  child  might  see,  be-. 
kaze,  'Oh,  'tis  only  ould  Mulvaney!'  An'  whin 
I'm  let  off  in  ord'ly-room  through  some  thrick  of 
the  tongue  an'  a  ready  answer  an'  the  ould  man's 
mercy,  is  ut  smilin'  I  feel  whin  I  fall  away  an'  go 
back  to  Dinah  Shadd,  thryin'  to  carry  ut  all  off  as 
a  joke?  Not  I!  'Tis  hell  to  me,  dumb  hell 
through  ut  all;  an'  next  time  whin  the  fit  comes 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  137 

I  will  be  as  bad  again.  Good  cause  the  reg'ment 
has  to  know  me  for  the  best  soldier  in  ut.  Bet- 
ter cause  have  I  to  know  mesilf  for  the  worst 
man.  I'm  only  fit  to  tache  the  new  drafts  what 
I'll  niver  learn  mesilf;  an'  I  am  sure,  as  tho'  I 
heard  ut,  that  the  minut  wan  av  these  pink-eyed 
recruities  gets  away  from  my  '  Mind  ye  now,'  an' 
'Listen  to  this,  Jim,  bhoy,' — sure  I  am  that  the 
sergint  houlds  me  up  to  him  for  a  warnin'.  So  I 
tache,  as  they  say  at  musketry-instruction,  by  di- 
rect and  ricochet  fire.  Lord  be  good  to  me,  for  I 
have  stud  some  throuble!  " 

"  Lie  down  and  go  to  sleep,"  said  1,  not  being 
able  to  comfort  or  advise.  "  You're  the  best  man 
in  the  regiment,  and,  next  to  Ortheris,  the 
biggest  fool.  Lie  down  and  wait  till  we're  at- 
tacked. What  force  will  they  turn  out.?  Guns, 
think  you .?" 

"Try  that  wid  your  lorrds  an'  ladies,  twistin' 
an'  turnin'  the  talk,  tho'  you  mint  ut  well.  Ye 
cud  say  nothin'  to  help  me,  an'  yet  ye  niver  knew 
what  cause  1  had  to  be  what  1  am." 

"Begin  at  the  beginning  and  go  on  to  the 
end,"  I  said,  royally.  "  But  rake  up  the  fire  a  bit 
first." 

1  passed  Ortheris's  bayonet  for  a  poker. 

"That  shows  how  little  we  know  what  v/e 
do,"  said  Mulvaney,  putting  it  aside.  "Fire 
takes  all  the  heart  out  av  the  steel,  an'  the  next 


138  Indian  Tales 

time,  may  be,  that  our  little  man  is  fighting  for 
his  life  his  bradawl  '11  break,  an'  so  you'll  ha' 
killed  him,  manin'  no  more  than  to  kape  yourself 
warm.  'Tis  a  recruity's  thrick  that.  Pass  the 
clanin'-rod,  sorr." 

I  snuggled  down  abased ;  and  after  an  interval 
the  voice  of  Mulvaney  began. 

"  Did  1  iver  tell  you  how  Dinah  Shadd  came  to 
be  wife  av  mine  }  " 

I  dissembled  a  burning  anxiety  that  I  had  felt 
for  some  months — ever  since  Dinah  Shadd,  the 
strong,  the  patient,  and  the  infinitely  tender,  had 
of  her  own  good  love  and  free  will  washed  a 
shirt  for  me,  moving  in  a  barren  land  where 
washing  was  not. 

"I  can't  remember,"  I  said,  casually.  "Was  it 
before  or  after  you  made  love  to  Annie  Bragin, 
and  got  no  satisfaction  ?  " 

The  story  of  Annie  Bragin  is  written  in  another 
place.  It  is  one  of  the  many  less  respectable 
episodes  in  Mulvaney's  checkered  career. 

"Before — before — long  before,  was  that  busi- 
ness av  Annie  Bragin  an'  the  corp'ril's  ghost. 
Niver  woman  was  the  worse  for  me  whin  I  had 
married  Dinah.  There's  a  time  for  all  things,  an' 
I  know  how  to  kape  all  things  in  place — barrin' 
the  dhrink,  that  kapes  me  in  my  place  wid  no 
hope  av  comin'  to  be  aught  else." 

''Begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  insisted.     "Mrs. 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  139 

Mulvaney  told  me  that  you  married  her  when 
you  were  quartered  in  Krab  Bokhar  barracks." 

"An'  the  same  is  a  cess-pit,"  said  Mulvaney, 
piously.  "She  spoke  thrue,  did  Dinah.  'Twas 
this  way.  Talkin'  av  that,  have  ye  iver  fallen  in 
love,  sorr?" 

1  preserved  the  silence  of  the  damned.  Mul- 
vaney continued  — 

"Thin  I  will  assume  that  ye  have  not.  /  did. 
In  the  days  av  my  youth,  as  I  have  more  than 
wanst  tould  you,  I  was  a  man  that  filled  the 
eye  an'  delighted  the  sowl  av  women.  Niver 
man  was  hated  as  1  have  bin.  Niver  man  was 
loved  as  1 — no,  not  within  half  a  day's  march 
av  ut!  For  the  first  five  years  av  my  service, 
whin  I  was  what  I  wud  give  my  sowl  to  be 
now,  I  tuk  whatever  was  within  my  reach  an' 
digested  ut — an'  that's  more  than  most  men  can 
say.  Dhrink  I  tuk,  an'  ut  did  me  no  harm.  By 
the  Hollow  av  Hiven,  I  cud  play  wid  four  women 
at  wanst,  an'  kape  them  from  findin'  out  any- 
thin'  about  the  other  three,  an'  smile  like  a  full- 
blown marigold  through  ut  all.  Dick  Coulhan, 
av  the  battery  we'll  have  down  on  us  to-night, 
could  drive  his  team  no  better  than  I  mine,  an'  I 
hild  the  worser  cattle!  An'  so  I  lived,  an'  so  I 
was  happy  till  afther  that  business  wid  Annie 
Bragin — she  that  turned  me  off  as  cool  as  a 
meat-safe,  an'  taught  me  where  I  stud  in  the 


140  Indian  Tales 

mind  av  an  honest  woman.  'Twas  no  sweet 
dose  to  swallow. 

"  Afther  that  1  sickened  awhile  an'  tuk  thought 
to  my  reg'mental  work;  conceiting  mesilf  1  wud 
study  an'  be  a  sargint,  an'  a  major-gineral  twinty 
minutes  afther  that.  But  on  top  av  my  ambi- 
tiousness  there  was  an  empty  place  in  my  sowl, 
an'  me  own  opinion  av  mesilf  cud  not  fill  ut. 
Sez  I  to  mesilf,  '  Terence,  you're  a  great  man  an' 
the  best  set-up  in  the  reg'mint.  Go  on  an'  get 
promotion.'  Sez  mesilf  to  me,  'What  for.''' 
Sez  I  to  mesilf,  '  For  the  glory  av  ut! '  Sez  me- 
silf to  me,  '  Will  that  fill  these  two  strong  arrums 
av  yours,  Terence?'  'Go  to  the  devil,'  sez  I  to 
mesilf.  'Go  to  the  married  lines,'  sez  mesilf  to 
me.  '  'Tis  the  same  thing,'  sez  I  to  mesilf.  '  Av 
you're  the  same  man,  ut  is,'  said  mesilf  to  me; 
an'  wid  that  I  considhered  on  ut  a  long  while. 
Did  you  iver  feel  that  way,  sorr.?" 

I  snored  gently,  knowing  that  if  Mulvaney 
were  uninterrupted  he  would  go  on.  The 
clamor  from  the  bivouac  fires  beat  up  to  the  stars, 
as  the  rival  singers  of  the  companies  were  pitted 
against  each  other. 

"So  I  felt  that  way  an'  a  bad  time  ut  was. 
Wanst,  bein'  a  fool,  I  wint  into  the  married  lines 
more  for  the  sake  av  spakin'  to  our  ould  color- 
sergint  Shadd  than  for  any  thruck  wid  women- 
folk.    I  was  a  corp'ril  then — rejuced  aftherward. 


Th^  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  141 

but  a  corp'ril  then.  I've  got  a  photograft  av  me- 
silf  to  prove  ut.  '  You'll  take  a  cup  av  tay  wid 
us?'  sez  Shadd.  '1  will  that,'  1  sez,  'tho'  tay  is 
not  my  divarsion.' 

"  '  'Twud  be  better  for  you  if  ut  were,'  sez  ould 
Mother  Shadd,  an'  she  had  ought  to  know,  for 
Shadd,  in  the  ind  av  his  service,  dhrank  bung-full 
each  night. 

"Wid  that  I  tuk  off  my  gloves — there  was 
pipe-clay  in  thim,  so  that  they  stud  alone— an' 
pulled  up  my  chair,  lookin'  round  at  the  china 
ornaments  an'  bits  av  things  in  the  Shadds'  quar- 
ters. They  were  things  that  belonged  to  a  man, 
an'  no  camp-kit,  here  to-day  an'  dishipated  next. 
'You're  comfortable  in  this  place,  sergint,'  sez  1. 
'Tis  the  wife  that  did  ut,  boy,'  sez  he,  pointin' 
the  stem  av  his  pipe  to  ould  Mother  Shadd,  an' 
she  smacked  the  top  av  his  bald  head  apon  the 
compliment.  'That  manes  you  want  money,' 
sez  she. 

"An'  thin — an'  thin  whin  the  kettle  was  to  be 
filled,  Dinah  came  in — my  Dinah — her  sleeves 
fowled  up  to  the  elbow  an'  her  hair  in  a  winkin' 
glory  over  her  forehead,  the  big  blue  eyes  be- 
neath twinklin'  like  stars  on  a  frosty  night,  an' 
the  tread  av  her  two  feet  lighter  than  waste- 
paper  from  the  colonel's  basket  in  ord'Iy-room 
whin  ut's  emptied.  Bein'  but  a  shlip  av  a  girl 
she  went  pink  at  seein'  me,  an'  I  twisted  me 


142  Indian    Tales 

moustache  an'  looked  at  a  picture  forninst  the 
wall.  Niver  show  a  woman  that  ye  care  the 
snap  av  a  finger  for  her,  an'  begad  she'll  come 
bleatin'  to  your  boot-heels!  " 

"I  suppose  that's  why  you  followed  Annie 
Bragin  till  everybody  in  the  married  quarters 
laughed  at  you,"  said  I,  remembering  that  un- 
hallowed wooing  and  casting  off  the  disguise  of 
drowsiness. 

"I'm  layin'  down  the  gin'ral  theory  av  the  at- 
tack," said  Mulvaney,  driving  his  boot  into  the 
dying  fire.  "If  you  read  the  Soldier's  Pocket 
Book,  which  niver  any  soldier  reads,  you'll  see 
that  there  are  exceptions.  Whin  Dinah  was  out 
av  the  door  (an'  'twas  as  tho'  the  sunlight  had 
shut  too) — '  Mother  av  Hiven,  sergint,'  sez  I,  '  but 
is  that  your  daughter?' — '  I've  believed  that  way 
these  eighteen  years,'  sez  ould  Shadd,  his  eyes 
twinklin';  'but  Mrs.  Shadd  has  her  own  opinion, 
like  iv'ry  woman.' — '  'Tis  wid  yours  this  time,  for 
a  mericle,'  sez  Mother  Shadd.  'Thin  why  in  the 
name  av  fortune  did  I  niver  see  her  before  ?'  sez 
I.  *  Bekaze  you've  been  thrapesin'  round  wid  the 
married  women  these  three  years  past.  She  was 
a  bit  av  a  child  till  last  year,  an'  she  shot  up  wid 
the  spring,'  sez  ould  Mother  Shadd.  '  I'll  thrapese 
no  more,'  sez  I.  'D'you  mane  that?'  sez  ould 
Mother  Shadd,  lookin'  at  me  side-ways  like  a  hen 
looks  at  a  hawk  whin  the  chickens  are  runnin' 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  143 

free.  'Try  me,  an'  tell,'  sez  I,  Wid  that  I  pulled 
on  my  gloves,  dhrank  off  the  tay,  an'  went  out 
av  the  house  as  stiff  as  at  gin'ral  p'rade,  for  well 
I  knew  that  Dinah  Shadd's  eyes  were  in  the  small 
av  my  back  out  av  the  scullery  window.  Faith! 
that  was  the  only  time  1  mourned  1  was  not  a 
cav'lry  man  for  the  pride  av  the  spurs  to  jingle. 

' '  1  wint  out  to  think,  an'  1  did  a  powerful  lot  av 
thinkin',  but  ut  all  came  round  to  that  shlip  av  a 
girl  in  the  dotted  blue  dhress,  wid  the  blue  eyes 
an'  the  sparkil  in  them.  Thin  I  kept  off  canteen, 
an'  I  kept  to  the  married  quarthers,  or  near  by, 
on  the  chanst  av  meetin'  Dinah.  Did  I  meet  her? 
Oh,  my  time  past,  did  I  not;  wid  a  lump  in  my 
throat  as  big  as  my  valise  an'  my  heart  goin'  like 
a  farrier's  forge  on  a  Saturday  morning  ?  'Twas 
'Good  day  to  ye,  Miss  Dinah,'  an'  'Good  day 
t'you,  corp'ril,'  for  a  week  or  two,  and  divil  a 
bit  further  could  I  get  bekaze  av  the  respect  I 
had  to  that  girl  that  1  cud  ha'  broken  betune 
finger  an'  thumb." 

Here  I  giggled  as  I  recalled  the  gigantic  figure 
of  Dinah  Shadd  when  she  handed  me  my  shirt. 

"Ye  may  laugh,"  grunted  Mulvaney.  "But 
I'm  speakin'  the  trut',  an'  'tis  you  that  are  in  fault. 
Dinah  was  a  girl  that  wud  ha'  taken  the  imperi- 
ousness  out  av  the  Duchess  av  Clonmel  in  those 
days.  Flower  hand,  foot  av  shod  air,  an'  the 
eyes  av  the  livin'  mornin'  she  had  that  is  my  wife 


144  Indian   Tales 

to-day — ould  Dinah,  and  niver  aught  else  than 
Dinah  Shadd  to  me. 

"  'Twas  after  three  weeks  standin'  ofif  an'  on, 
an'  niver  rnakin'  headway  excipt  through  the 
eyes,  that  a  little  drummer  boy  grinned  in  me 
face  whin  1  had  admonished  him  wid  the  buckle 
av  my  belt  for  riotin'  all  over  the  place.  'An' 
I'm  not  the  only  wan  that  doesn't  kape  to  bar- 
ricks,'  sez  he.  I  tuk  him  by  the  scruff  av  his 
neck, — my  heart  was  hung  on  a  hair-thrigger 
those  days,  you  will  onderstand — an'  'Out  wid 
ut,'  sez  1,  'or  I'll  lave  no  bone  av  you  unbreak- 
able.'— 'Speak  to  Dempsey,'  sez  he  howlin'. 
'  Dempsey  which  } '  sez  I,  '  ye  unwashed  limb  av 
Satan.' — 'Avthe  Bob-tailed  Dhragoons,' sez  he. 
'  He's  seen  her  home  from  her  aunt's  house  in  the 
civil  lines  four  times  this  fortnight. ' — '  Child ! '  sez 
I,  dhroppin'  him,  *  your  tongue's  stronger  than 
your  body.  Go  to  your  quarters.  I'm  sorry  I 
dhressed  you  down.' 

"At  that  I  went  four  ways  to  wanst  huntin* 
Dempsey.  I  was  mad  to  think  that  wid  all  my 
airs  among  women  I  shud  ha'  been  chated  by  a 
basin-faced  fool  av  a  cav'lryman  not  fit  to  trust 
on  a  trunk.  Presintly  I  found  him  in  our  lines — 
the  Bobtails  was  quartered  next  us — an'  a  tallowy, 
topheavy  son  av  a  she-mule  he  was  wid  his  big 
brass  spurs  an'  his  plastrons  on  his  epigastrons 
an'  all.     But  he  niver  flinched  a  hair. 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  ShaJd  145 

"  '  A  word  wid  you,  Dempsey,'  sez  I.  *  You've 
walked  wid  Dinah  Shadd  four  times  this  fort- 
night gone.' 

"  '  What's  that  to  you  ? '  sez  he.  '  I'll  walk  forty 
times  more,  an'  forty  on  top  av  that,  ye  shovel- 
futted  clod-breakin'  infantry  lance-corp'ril.' 

"Before  I  cud  gyard  he  had  his  gloved  fist 
home  on  my  cheek  an'  down  1  went  full-sprawl. 
'Will  that  content  you.?'  sez  he,  blowin'  on  his 
knuckles  for  all  the  world  like  a  Scots  Greys 
orf'cer.  '  Content! '  sez  I.  '  For  your  own  sake, 
man,  take  off  your  spurs,  peel  your  jackut,  an' 
onglove.  'Tis  the  beginnin'  av  the  overture; 
stand  up! ' 

"  He  stud  all  he  know,  but  he  niver  peeled  his 
jacket,  an'  his  shoulders  had  no  fair  play.  I  was 
fightin'  for  Dinah  Shadd  an'  that  cut  on  my  cheek. 
What  hope  had  he  forninst  me.?  'Stand  up,'  sez 
1,  time  an'  again  whin  he  was  beginnin'  to  quar- 
ter the  ground  an'  gyard  high  an'  go  large.  '  This 
isn't  ridin'-school,'  I  sez.  'O  man,  stand  up  an' 
let  me  get  in  at  ye.'  But  whin  I  saw  he  wud  be 
runnin'  about,  I  grup  his  shtock  in  my  left  an'  his 
waist-belt  in  my  right  an'  swung  him  clear  to  my 
right  front,  head  undher,  he  hammerin'  my  nose 
till  the  wind  was  knocked  out  av  him  on  the  bare 
ground.  '  Stand  up,'  sez  I,  '  or  I'll  kick  your  head 
into  your  chest!'  and  1  wud  ha'  done  ut  too,  so 
ragin'  mad  I  was. 


^4€>  Indian   Tales 

•''My  collar-bone's  bruk,'  sez  he.  'Help  me 
back  to  lines.  I'll  walk  wid  her  no  more.'  So  I 
helped  him  back." 

"And  was  his  collar-bone  broken?"!  asked, 
for  I  fancied  that  only  Learoyd  could  neatly  ac- 
complish that  terrible  throw. 

"He  pitched  on  his  left  shoulder  point.  Ut 
was.  Next  day  the  news  was  in  both  barricks, 
an'  whin  I  met  Dinah  Shadd  wid  a  cheek  on  me 
like  all  the  reg'mintal  tailor's  samples  there  was 
no  'Good  mornin',  corp'ril,'  or  aught  else.  'An' 
what  have  I  done,  Miss  Shadd,'  sez  1,  very  bould, 
plantin'  mesilf  forninst  her,  'that  ye  should  not 
pass  the  time  of  day  }' 

"  '  Ye've  half-killed  rough-rider  Dempsey,'  sez 
she,  her  dear  blue  eyes  fillin'  up. 

"  '  May  be,'  sez  I.  '  Was  he  a  friend  av  yours 
that  saw  ye  home  four  times  in  the  fortnight  ? ' 

"  'Yes,'  sez  she,  but  her  mouth  was  down  at 
the  corners.  '  An' — an'  what's  that  to  you  } '  she 
sez. 

"  '  Ask  Demsey,'  sez  I,  purtendin'  to  go  away. 

"  'Did  you  fight  for  me  then,  ye  silly  man?' 
she  sez,  tho'  she  knew  ut  all  along. 

"  '  Who  else  ?'  sez  I,  an'  I  tuk  wan  pace  to  the 
front. 

"  '  I  wasn't  worth  ut,'  sez  she,  fingerin'  in  her 
apron. 

' ' '  That's  for  me  to  say, '  sez  I.    '  Shall  I  say  ut  ?  * 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  147 

"'Yes/sez  she,  in  a  saint's  whisper,  an'  at 
that  I  explained  mesilf  ;  and  she  tould  me  what 
ivry  man  that  is  a  man,  an'  many  that  is  a 
woman,  hears  wanst  in  his  life. 

'"But  what  made  ye  cry  at  startin',  Dinah, 
darlin'  ?'  sez  I. 

"  'Your — your  bloody  cheek,'  sez  she,  duckin' 
her  little  head  down  on  my  sash  (I  was  on  duty 
for  the  day)  an'  whimperin'  like  a  sorrowful 
angil. 

"  Now  a  man  cud  take  that  two  ways.  I  tuk 
ut  as  pleased  me  best  an'  my  first  kiss  wid  ut. 
Mother  av  Innocence!  but  I  kissed  her  on  the  tip 
av  the  nose  and  undher  the  eye  ;  an'  a  girl  that 
let's  a  kiss  come  tumble-ways  like  that  has  never 
been  kissed  before.  Take  note  av  that,  sorr. 
Thin  we  wint  hand  in  hand  to  ould  Mother  Shadd 
like  two  little  childher,  an'  she  said  'twas  no  bad 
thing,  an'  ould  Shadd  nodded  behind  his  pipe, 
an'  Dinah  ran  away  to  her  own  room.  That  day 
I  throd  on  rollin'  clouds.  All  earth  was  too  small 
to  hould  me.  Begad,  I  cud  ha'  hiked  the  sun  out 
av  the  sky  for  a  live  coal  to  my  pipe,  so  magnif- 
icent 1  was.  But  I  tuk  recruities  at  squad-drill 
instid,  an'  began  wid  general  battalion  advance 
whin  I  shud  ha'  been  balance-steppin'  them. 
Eyah  !  that  day  !  that  day  !  " 

A  very  long  pause.     "  Well  ?"  said  I. 

"'Twas  all  wrong,"  said  Mulvaney,  with  an 


1 48  Indian   Tales 

enormous  sigh.  "An'  I  know  that  ev'ry  bit  av 
ut  was  my  own  foolishness.  That  night  1  tuk 
maybe  the  half  av  three  pints — not  enough  to 
turn  the  hair  of  a  man  in  his  natural  senses.  But 
I  was  more  than  half  drunk  wid  pure  joy,  an' 
that  canteen  beer  was  so  much  whisky  to  me.  I 
can't  tell  how  it  came  about,  but  bekaie  I  had  no 
thought  for  anywan  except  Dinah,  behave  I 
hadn't  slipped  her  little  white  arms  from  my  neck 
five  minuts,  bekaie  the  breath  of  her  kiss  was  not 
gone  from  my  mouth,  I  must  go  through  the 
married  lines  on  my  way  to  quarters  an'  I  must 
stay  talkin'  to  a  red-headed  Mullingar  heifer  av  a 
girl,  Judy  Sheehy,  that  was  daughter  to  Mother 
Sheehy,  the  wife  of  Nick  Sheehy,  the  canteen- 
sergint — the  Black  Curse  av  Shielygh  be  on  the 
whole  brood  that  are  above  groun'  this  day  ! 

"'An'  what  are  ye  houldin'  your  head  that 
high  for,  corp'ril .?'  sez  Judy.  '  Come  in  an'  thry 
a  cup  av  tay,'  she  sez,  standin'  in  the  doorway. 
Bein'  an  ontrustable  fool,  an'  thinkin'  av  anything 
but  tay,  I  wint. 

"'Mother's  at  canteen,'  sez  Judy,  smoothin' 
the  hair  av  hers  that  was  like  red  snakes,  an' 
lookin'  at  me  corner-ways  out  av  her  green  cats' 
eyes.     'Ye  will  not  mind,  corp'ril.?' 

"'I  can  endure,' sez  I  ;  ould  Mother  Sheehy 
bein'  no  divarsion  av  mine,  nor  her  daughter  too. 
Judy  fetched  the  tea  things  an'  put  thim  on  the 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  149 

table,  leanin'  over  me  very  close  to  get  thim 
square.     I  dhrew  back,  thinkin'  av  Dinah. 

"  '  Is  ut  afraid  you  are  av  a  girl  alone?'  sez 
Judy. 

"'No,' sez  I.     'Why  should  I  be.?' 

"  'That  rests  wid  the  girl,'  sez  Judy,  dhrawin' 
her  chair  next  to  mine. 

"'Thin  there  let  ut  rest,'  sez  I  ;  an'  thinkin' 
I'd  been  a  trifle  onpolite,  I  sez,  '  The  tay's  not 
quite  sweet  enough  for  my  taste.  Put  your  little 
finger  in  the  cup,  Judy.    'Twill  make  ut  necthar.' 

"  '  What's  necthar  }'  sez  she. 

"  '  Somethin' very  sweet,'  sez  I;  an'  for  the 
sinful  life  av  me  I  cud  not  help  lookin'  at  her  out 
av  the  corner  av  my  eye,  as  I  was  used  to  look  at 
a  woman. 

"  '  Go  on  wid  ye,  corp'ril,'  sez  she.  '  You're  a 
flirrt.' 

"  'On  me  sowl  I'm  not,'  sez  I. 

"'Then  you're  a  cruel  handsome  man,  an' 
that's  worse,'  sez  she,  heaving  big  sighs  an' 
lookin'  crossways. 

"  '  You  know  your  own  mind,'  sez  I. 

"  '  'Twud  be  better  for  me  if  1  did  not,'  she  sez. 

"  'There's  a  dale  to  be  said  on  both  sides  av 
that,'  sez  I,  unthinkin'. 

"'Say  your  own  part  av  ut,  then,  Terence, 
darlin','  sez  she  ;  '  for  begad  I'm  thinkin'  I've  said 
too  much  or  too  little  for  an  honest  girl,'  an'  wid 


150  Indian  Tales 

that  she  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  an'  kissed 
me. 

"  'There's  no  more  to  be  said  afther  that,'  sez 
ii,  kissin'  her  back  again — Oh  the  mane  scutt  that  1 
was,  my  head  ringin'  wid  Dinah  Shadd  !  How 
does  ut  come  about,  sorr,  that  when  a  man  has 
put  the  comether  on  wan  woman,  he's  sure 
bound  to  put  it  on  another  ?  'Tis  the  same  thing 
at  musketry.  Wan  day  ivry  shot  goes  wide  or 
into  the  bank,  an'  the  next,  lay  high  lay  low, 
sight  or  snap,  ye  can't  get  off  the  bull's-eye  for 
ten  shots  runnin'." 

"That  only  happens  to  a  man  who  has  had  a 
good  deal  of  experience.  He  does  it  without 
thinking,"  1  replied. 

"Thankin'  you  for  the  complimint,  sorr,  ut 
may  be  so.  But  I'm  doubtful  whether  you  mint 
ut  for  a  complimint.  Hear  now  ;  I  sat  there  wid 
Judy  on  my  knee  tellin'  me  all  manner  av  non- 
sinse  an'  only  sayin'  'yes'  an'  'no,'  when  I'd 
much  better  ha'  kept  tongue  betune  teeth.  An' 
that  was  not  an  hour  afther  I  had  left  Dinah! 
What  I  was  thinkin'  avi  cannot  say.  Presintly, 
quiet  as  a  cat,  ould  Mother  Sheehy  came  in  vel- 
vet-dhrunk.  She  had  her  daughter's  red  hair, 
but  'twas  bald  in  patches,  an'  I  cud  see  in  her 
wicked  ould  face,  clear  as  lightnin',  what  Judy 
wud  be  twenty  years  to  come.  1  was  for  jumpin' 
up,  but  Judy  niver  moved. 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  151 

"'Terence  has  promust,  mother/  sez  she,  an' 
the  could  sweat  bruk  out  all  over  me.  Ould 
Mother  Sheehy  sat  down  of  a  heap  an'  began 
playin'  wid  the  cups.  *  Thin  you're  a  well- 
matched  pair,'  she  sez,  very  thick.  'For  he's 
the  biggest  rogue  that  iver  spoiled  the  queen's 
shoe-leather,'  an' — 

"'I'm  off,  Judy,'  sez  I.  'Ye  should  not  talk 
nonsinse  to  your  mother.     Get  her  to  bed,  girl.' 

"  '  Nonsinse  ! '  sez  the  ould  woman,  prickin'  up 
her  ears  like  a  cat  an'  grippin'  the  table-edge. 
'  'Twill  be  the  most  nonsinsical  nonsinse  for  you, 
ye  grinnin'  badger,  if  nonsinse  'tis.  Git  clear, 
you.     I'm  goin'  to  bed.' 

"I  ran  out  into  the  dhark,  my  head  in  a  stew 
an'  my  heart  sick,  but  I  had  sinse  enough  to  see 
that  I'd  brought  ut  all  on  mysilf.  '  It's  this  to 
pass  the  time  av  day  to  a  panjandhrum  av  hell- 
cats,' sez  1.  'What  I've  said,  an'  what  I've  not 
said  do  not  matther.  Judy  an'  her  dam  will 
hould  me  for  a  promust  man,  an'  Dinah  will  give 
me  the  go,  an'  I  desarve  ut.  I  will  go  an'  get 
dhrunk,'  sez  I,  'an'  forget  about  ut,  for  'tis  plain 
I'm  not  a  marrin'  man.' 

"  On  my  way  to  canteen  I  ran  agamst  Las- 
celles,  color-sergeant  that  was  av  E  Comp'ny,  a 
hard,  hard  man,  wid  a  torment  av  a  wife. 
'You've  the  head  av  a  drov/ned  man  on  your 
shoulders,'  sez  he;  'an'  you're  goin'  where  you'll 


152  Indian  Tales 

get  a  worse  wan.  Come  back,'  sez  he.  '  Let  me 
go,'  sez  I.  M've  thrown  my  luck  over  the  wall 
wid  my  own  hand! ' — 'Then  that's  not  the  way 
to  get  ut  back  again,'  sez  he.  'Have  out  wid 
your  throuble,  ye  fool-bhoy.'  An'  1  tould  him 
how  the  matther  was. 

"He  sucked  in  his  lower  lip.  'You've  been 
thrapped,'  sez  he.  'Ju  Sheehy  wud  be  the  bet- 
ther  for  a  man's  name  to  hers  as  soon  as  can.  An 
ye  thought  ye'd  put  the  comether  on  her, — that's 
the  natural  vanity  of  the  baste.  Terence,  you're 
a  big  born  fool,  but  you're  not  bad  enough  to 
marry  into  that  comp'ny.  If  you  said  anythin', 
an'  for  all  your  protestations  I'm  sure  ye  did — or 
did  not,  which  is  worse, — eat  ut  all — lie  like  the 
father  of  all  lies,  but  come  out  av  ut  free  av  Judy. 
Do  I  not  know  what  ut  is  to  marry  a  woman  that 
was  the  very  spit  an'  image  av  Judy  whin  she 
was  young.?  I'm  gettin'  old  an'  I've  larnt  pa- 
tience, but  you,  Terence,  you'd  raise  hand  on 
Judy  an'  kill  her  in  a  year.  Never  mind  if  Dinah 
gives  you  the  go,  you've  desarved  ut;  never  mind 
if  the  whole  reg'mint  laughs  you  all  day.  Get 
shut  av  Judy  an'  her  mother.  They  can't  dhrag 
you  to  church,  but  if  they  do.  they'll  dhrag  you 
to  hell.  Go  back  to  your  quarters  and  lie  down,' 
sez  he.  Thin  over  his  shoulder,  '  You  must  ha' 
done  with  thim.' 

"Next  day  I  wint  to  see  Dinah,  but  there  was 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  153 

no  tucker  in  me  as  I  walked.  I  knew  the 
throuble  wud  come  soon  enough  widout  any 
handlin'  av  mine,  an'  I  dreaded  ut  sore. 

"  I  heard  Judy  callin'  me,  but  I  hild  straight  on 
to  the  Shadds'  quarthers,  an'  Dinah  wud  ha' 
kissed  me  but  I  put  her  back. 

"'Whin  all's  said,  darlin','sez  I,  'you  can  give 
ut  me  if  ye  will,  tho'  I  misdoubt  'twill  be  so  easy 
to  come  by  then.' 

"1  had  scarce  begun  to  put  the  explanation 
into  shape  before  Judy  an'  her  mother  came  to 
the  door.  I  think  there  was  a  veranda,  but  I'm 
forgettin'. 

"  'Will  ye  not  step  in  .?'  sez  Dinah,  pretty  and 
polite,  though  the  Shadds  had  no  dealin's  with 
the  Sheehys.  Old  Mother  Shadd  looked  up 
quick,  an'  she  was  the  fust  to  see  the  throuble; 
for  Dinah  was  her  daughter. 

"'I'm  pressed  for  time  to-day,'  sez  Judy  as 
bould  as  brass;  'an'  I've  only  come  for  Terence, 
— my  promust  man.  'Tis  strange  to  find  him 
here  the  day  afther  the  day.' 

"Dinah  looked  at  me  as  though  I  had  hit  her, 
an'  I  answered  straight. 

"'There  was  some  nonsinse  last  night  at  the 
Sheehys'  quarthers,  an'  Judy's  carryin'  on  the 
joke,  darlin','  sez  I. 

"  '  At  the  Sheehys'  quarthers  }  '  sez  Dinah  very 
slow,  an'  Judy  cut  in  wid:     'He  was  there  from 


154  Indian  Tales 

nine  till  ten,  Dinah  Shadd,  an'  the  betther  half  av 
that  time  I  was  sittin'  on  his  knee,  Dinah  Shadd. 
Ye  may  look  and  ye  may  look  an'  ye  may  look 
me  up  an'  down,  but  ye  won't  look  away  that 
Terence  is  my  promust  man.  Terence,  darlin', 
'tis  time  for  us  to  be  comin'  home.' 

"  Dinah  Shadd  niver  said  word  to  Judy.  '  Ye 
left  me  at  half-past  eight,'  she  sez  to  me,  'an'  I 
niver  thought  that  yed  leave  me  for  Judy, — 
promises  or  no  promises.  Go  back  wid  her,  you 
that  have  to  be  fetched  by  a  girl!  I'm  done  with 
you,'  sez  she,  and  she  ran  into  her  own  room, 
her  mother  followin'.  So  i  was  alone  wid  those 
two  women  and  at  liberty  to  spake  my  senti- 
ments. 

"  '  Judy  Sheehy,'  sez  I,  '  if  you  made  a  fool  av 
me  betune  the  lights  you  shall  not  do  ut  in  the 
day.     I  niver  promised  you  words  or  lines.' 

"  '  You  lie,'  sez  ould  Mother  Sheehy,  'an'  may 
ut  choke  you  wnere  you  stand ! '  She  was  far 
gone  in  dhrink. 

"  'An'  tho'  ut  choked  me  where  1  stud  I'd  not 
change,' sez  I.  'Go  home,  Judy.  I  take  shame 
for  a  decent  girl  like  you  dhraggin'  your  mother 
out  bareheaded  on  this  errand.  Hear  now,  and 
have  ut  for  an  answer.  1  gave  my  word  to 
Dinah  Shadd  yesterday,  an',  more  blame  to  me,  I 
was  wid  you  last  night  talkin'  nonsinse  but 
nothin'  more.     You've  chosen  to  thry  to  hould 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  155 

me  on  ut.  I  will  not  be  held  thereby  for  anythin' 
in  the  world.     Is  that  enough  ? ' 

"Judy  wint  pink  all  over.  'An'  I  wish  you 
joy  av  the  perjury,'  sez  she,  duckin'  a  curtsey. 
'  You've  lost  a  woman  that  would  ha'  wore  her 
hand  to  the  bone  for  your  pleasure;  an'  'deed,  Ter- 
ence, ye  were  not  thrapped.  .  .  .'  Lascelles 
must  ha'  spoken  plain  to  her.  '  1  am  such  as  Dinah 
is— 'deed  I  am !  Ye've  lost  a  fool  av  a  girl  that'll 
niver  look  at  you  again,  an'  ye've  lost  what  he 
niver  had, — your  common  honesty.  If  you  man- 
age your  men  as  you  manage  your  love-makin', 
small  wondher  they  call  you  the  worst  corp'ril 
in  the  comp'ny.     Come  away,  mother,'  sez  she. 

"  But  divil  a  fut  would  the  ould  woman  budge! 
'  D'you  hould  by  that  ?'  sez  she,  peerin'  up  under 
her  thick  grey  eyebrows. 

"'Ay,  an'  wud,'  sez  I,  '  tho'  Dinah  give  me 
the  go  twinty  times.  I'll  have  no  thruck  with 
you  or  yours,'  sez  I.  'Take  your  child  away,  ye 
shameless  woman.' 

"  '  An'  am  I  shameless  ?'  sez  she,  bringin'  her 
hands  up  above  her  head.  'Thin  what  are  you, 
ye  lyin',  schamin',  weak-kneed,  dhirty-souled  son 
av  a  sutler  ?  Am  /  shameless  ?  Who  put  the 
open  shame  on  me  an'  my  child  that  we  shud  go 
beggin'  through  the  lines  in  the  broad  daylight 
for  the  broken  word  of  a  man  }  Double  portion 
of  my  shame  be  on  you,  Terence  Mulvaney,  that 


156  Indian  Tales 

think  yourself  so  strong!  By  Mary  and  the 
saints,  by  blood  and  water  an'  by  ivry  sorrow 
that  came  into  the  world  since  the  beginnin',  the 
black  blight  fall  on  you  and  yours,  so  that  you 
may  niver  be  free  from  pain  for  another  when 
ut's  not  your  own!  May  your  heart  bleed  in 
your  breast  drop  by  drop  wid  all  your  friends 
laughin'  at  the  bleedin'!  Strong  you  think  your- 
self ?  May  your  strength  be  a  curse  to  you  to 
dhrive  you  into  the  divil's  hands  against  your 
own  will!  Clear-eyed  you  are  ?  May  your  eyes 
see  clear  evry  step  av  the  dark  path  you  take  till 
the  hot  cindhers  av  hell  put  thim  out!  May  the 
ragin'  dry  thirst  in  my  own  ould  bones  go  to  you 
that  you  shall  niver  pass  bottle  full  nor  glass 
empty.  God  preserve  the  light  av  your  onder- 
standin'  to  you,  my  jewel  av  a  bhoy,  that  ye  may 
niver  forget  what  you  mint  to  be  an'  do,  whin 
you're  wallowin'  in  the  muck!  May  ye  seethe 
betther  and  follow  the  worse  as  long  as  there's 
breath  in  your  body;  an'  may  ye  die  quick  in  a 
strange  land,  watchin'  your  death  before  ut  takes 
you,  an'  onable  to  stir  hand  or  foot! ' 

"  1  heard  a  scufflin'  in  the  room  behind,  and 
thin  Dinah  Shadd's  hand  dhropped  into  mine  like 
a  rose-leaf  into  a  muddy  road. 

"  '  The  half  av  that  I'll  take,'  sez  she,  '  an'  more 
too  if  I  can.  Go  home,  ye  silly  talkin'  woman, 
— go  home  an'  confess.' 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  1 57 

"'Come  away!  Come  away!'  sez  Judy, 
pullin'  her  mother  by  the  shawl.  ''Twas  none 
av  Terence's  fault.  For  the  love  av  Mary  stop 
the  talkin'!' 

"  '  An'  you! '  said  ould  Mother  Sheehy,  spinnin' 
round  forninst  Dinah.  '  Will  ye  take  the  half  av 
that  man's  load.?  Stand  off  from  him,  Dinah 
Shadd,  before  he  takes  you  down  too — you  that 
look  to  be  a  quarther-master-sergeant's  wife  in 
five  years.  You  look  too  high,  child.  You  shall 
wash  for  the  quarther-master-sergeant,  whin  he 
plases  to  give  you  the  job  out  av  charity;  but  a 
privit's  wife  you  shall  be  to  the  end,  an'  evry 
sorrow  of  a  privit's  wife  you  shall  know  and 
nivir  a  joy  but  wan,  that  shall  go  from  you  like 
the  running  tide  from  a  rock.  The  pain  av 
bearin'  you  shall  know  but  niver  the  pleasure  av 
giving  the  breast;  an'  you  shall  put  away  a  man- 
child  into  the  common  ground  wid  never  a  priest 
to  say  a  prayer  over  him,  an'  on  that  man-child 
ye  shall  think  ivry  day  av  your  life.  Think  long, 
Dinah  Shadd,  for  you'll  niver  have  another  tho' 
you  pray  till  your  knees  are  bleedin'.  The 
mothers  av  childer  shall  mock  you  behind  your 
back  when  you're  wringing  over  the  washtub. 
You  shall  know  what  ut  is  to  help  a  dhrunken 
husband  home  an'  see  him  go  to  thegyard-room. 
Will  that  plase  you,  Dinah  Shadd,  that  won't  be 
seen  talkin'  to  my  daughter  ?    You  shall  talk  to 


158  Indian  Tales 

worse  than  Judy  before  all's  over.  The  sergints' 
wives  shall  look  down  on  you  contemptuous, 
daughter  av  a  sergint,  an'  you  shall  cover  ut  all 
up  wid  a  smiling  face  when  your  heart's  burstin'. 
Stand  off  av  him,  Dinah  Shadd,  for  I've  put  the 
Black  Curse  of  Shielygh  upon  him  an'  his  own 
mouth  shall  make  ut  good.' 

"She  pitched  forward  on  her  head  an' began 
foamin'  at  the  mouth.  Dinah  Shadd  ran  out  wid 
water,  an'  Judy  dhragged  the  ould  v/oman  into 
the  veranda  till  she  sat  up. 

"  'I'm  old  an'  forlore,'  she  sez,  thremblin'  an' 
cryin',  '  and  'tis  like  I  say  a  dale  more  than  I 
mane.' 

"  '  When  you're  able  to  M^alk, — go,'  says  ould 
Mother  Shadd.  'This  house  has  no  place  for 
the  likes  av  you  that  have  cursed  my  daughter.' 

"  '  Eyah ! '  said  the  ould  woman.  '  Hard  words 
break  no  bones,  an'  Dinah  Shadd  '11  keep  the  love 
av  her  husband  till  my  bones  are  green  corn. 
Judy  darlin',  I  misremember  what  1  came  here 
for.  Can  you  lend  us  the  bottom  av  a  taycup 
av  tay,  Mrs.  Shadd  .^ ' 

"  But  Judy  dhragged  her  off  cryin'  as  tho'  her 
heart  wud  break.  An'  Dinah  Shadd  an'  I,  in  ten 
minutes  we  had  forgot  ut  all." 

"Then  why  do  you  remember  it  now?" 
said  I. 

"  Is  ut  like  I'd  forget  ?    Ivry  word  that  wicked 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  j^g 

ould  woman  spoke  fell  thrue  in  my  life  afther- 
ward,  an'  I  cud  ha'  stud  ut  all — stud  ut  all — ex- 
cipt  when  my  little  Shadd  was  born.  That  was 
on  the  line  av  march  three  months  afther  the 
regiment  was  taken  with  cholera.  We  were 
betune  Umballa  an'  Kalka  thin,  an'  I  was  on 
picket.  Whin  I  came  off  duty  the  women 
showed  me  the  child,  an'  ut  turned  out  uts  side 
an'  died  as  !  looked.  We  buried  him  by  the 
road,  an'  Father  Victor  was  a  day's  march  behind 
wid  the  heavy  baggage,  so  the  comp'ny  captain 
read  a  prayer.  An'  since  then  I've  been  a  child- 
less man,  an'  all  else  that  ould  Mother  Sheehy 
put  upon  me  an'  Dinah  Shadd.  What  do  you 
think,  sorr  }  " 

I  thought  a  good  deal,  but  it  seemed  better 
then  to  reach  out  for  Mulvaney's  hand.  The 
demonstration  nearly  cost  me  the  use  of  three 
fingers.  Whatever  he  knows  of  his  weaknesses, 
Mulvaney  is  entirely  ignorant  of  his  strength. 

"But  what  do  you  think?"  he  repeated,  as  I 
was  straightening  out  the  crushed  lingers. 

My  reply  was  drowned  in  yells  and  outcries 
from  the  next  fire,  where  ten  men  were  shouting 
for  "Orth'ris,"  "  Privit  Orth'ris,"  "  Mistah  Or— 
ther — ris!"  '' Deah  boy,"  "  Cap'n  Orth'ris," 
"Field-Marshal  Orth'ris,"  "Stanley,  you  pen'- 
north  o'  pop,  come  'ere  to  your  own  comp'ny!" 
And  the  cockney,  who  had  been  delighting  an- 


i6o  Indian  Tales 

other  audience  with  recondite  and  Rabelaisian 
yarns,  was  shot  down  among  his  admirers  by 
the  major  force. 

"  You've  crumpled  my  dress-shirt  'orrid,"  said 
he,  "an'  I  shan't  sing  no  more  to  this  'ere 
bloomin'  drawin'-room." 

Learoyd,  roused  by  the  confusion,  uncoiled 
himself,  crept  behind  Ortheris,  and  slung  him 
aloft  on  his  shoulders. 

"Sing,  ye  bloomin'  hummin'  bird!"  said  he, 
and  Ortheris,  beating  time  on  Learoyd's  skull, 
delivered  himself,  in  the  raucous  voice  of  the 
Ratcliffe  Highway,  of  this  song: — 

My  girl  she  give  me  the  go  onst, 

When  I  was  a  London  lad, 
An'  I  went  on  the  drink  for  a  fortnight, 

An'  then  I  went  to  the  bad. 
The  Queen  she  give  me  a  shillin' 

To  fight  for  'er  over  the  seas ; 
But  Guv'ment  built  me  a  fever-trap. 

An'  Injia  give  me  disease. 

Chorus. 
Ho !  don't  you  'eed  what  a  girl  says, 

An'  don't  you  go  for  the  beer ; 
But  I  was  an  ass  when  I  was  at  grass. 

An'  that  is  why  I'm  here. 

I  fired  a  shot  at  a  Afghan, 

The  beggar  'e  fired  again, 
An'  I  lay  on  my  bed  with  a  'ole  in  my  'ed, 

An'  missed  the  next  campaign ! 


The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd  i6i 

I  up  with  my  gun  at  a  Burman 

Who  carried  a  bloomin'  da/i, 
But  the  cartridge  stuck  and  the  bay'nit  bruk, 

An'  all  I  got  was  the  scar. 

Chorus. 
Ho  !  don't  you  aim  at  a  Afghan 

When  you  stand  on  tUe  sky-line  clear; 
An'  don't  you  go  for  a  Burman 

If  none  o'  your  friends  is  near. 

I  served  my  time  for  a  corp'ral, 

An'  wetted  my  stripes  with  pop, 
For  I  went  on  the  bend  with  a  intimate  friend. 

An'  finished  the  night  in  the  "  shop." 
I  served  my  time  for  a  sergeant ; 

The  colonel  'e  sez  "  No  ! 
The  most  you'll  see  is  a  full  C,  B."  ' 

An'     .     .     .     very  next  night  'twas  so. 

Chorus. 
Ho !  don't  you  go  for  a  corp'ral 

Unless  your  'ed  is  clear ; 
But  I  was  an  ass  when  I  was  at  grass, 

An'  that  is  why  I'm  'ere. 

I've  tasted  the  luck  o'  the  army 

In  barrack  an'  camp  an'  cHnk, 
An'  I  lost  my  tip  through  the  bloomin'  trip 

Along  o'  the  women  an'  drink. 
I'm  down  at  the  heel  o'  my  service 

An'  when  I  am  laid  on  the  shelf, 
My  very  wust  friend  from  beginning  to  end 

By  the  blood  of  a  mouse  was  myself ! 
'  Confined  to  barracks. 


1 62  Indian  Tales 

Chorus. 

Ho !  don't  you  'eed  what  a  girl  says, 

An'  don't  you  go  for  the  beer : 
But  1  was  an  ass  when  I  was  at  grass, 

An'  that  is  why  I'm  'ere. 

"Ay,  listen  to  our  little  man  now,  singin'  an' 
shoutin'  as  tho'  trouble  had  niver  touched  him. 
D'  you  remember  when  he  went  mad  with  the 
homesickness  ? "  said  Mulvaney,  recalling  a 
never-to-be-forgotten  season  when  Ortheris 
waded  through  the  deep  waters  of  affliction  and 
behaved  abominably.  "  But  he's  talkin'  bitter 
truth,  though.     Eyah! 

"  My  very  worst  frind  from  beginnin'  to  ina 
By  the  blood  av  a  mouse  was  mesilf !  " 


When  I  woke  I  saw  Mulvaney,  the  night-dew 
gemming  his  moustache,  leaning  on  his  rifle  at 
picket,  lonely  as  Prometheus  on  his  rock,  with  I 
know  not  what  vultures  tearing  his  liver. 


THE  STORY  OF  MUHAMMAD  DIN 

Who  is  the  happy  man  ?  He  that  sees  in  his  own  house  at 
home,  little  children  crowned  with  dust,  leaping  and  falling  and 
crying. — Munichandra,  translated  by  Professor  Peterson. 

THE  polo-ball  was  an  old  one,  scarred,  chipped, 
and  dinted,  it  stood  on  the  mantelpiece 
among  the  pipe-stems  which  Imam  Din,  khitmat- 
gar,  was  cleaning  for  me. 

"Does  the  Heaven-born  want  this  ball?"  said 
Imam  Din,  deferentially. 

The  Heaven-born  set  no  particular  store  by  it ; 
but  of  what  use  was  a  polo-ball  to  a  khimatgar  ? 

"By  your  Honor's  favor,  I  have  a  little  son. 
He  has  seen  this  ball,  and  desires  it  to  play  with. 
I  do  not  want  it  for  myself." 

No  one  would  for  an  instant  accuse  portly  old 
Imam  Din  of  wanting  to  play  with  polo-balls. 
He  carried  out  the  battered  thing  into  the  veranda; 
and  there  followed  a  hurricane  of  joyful  squeaks, 
a  patter  of  small  feet,  and  the  thiid-thud-thud  oi 
the  ball  rolling  along  the  ground.  Evidently  the 
little  son  had  been  waiting  outside  the  door  to 
secure  his  treasure.  But  how  had  he  managed  to 
see  that  polo-ball  ? 

Next  day,  coming  back  from  office  half  an  hour 
163 


1 64  Indian  Tales 

earlier  than  usual,  I  was  aware  of  a  small  figure 
in  the  dining-room — a  tiny,  plump  figure  in  a 
ridiculously  inadequate  shirt  which  came,  per- 
haps, half-way  down  the  tubby  stomach.  It 
wandered  round  the  room,  thumb  in  mouth, 
crooning  to  itself  as  it  took  stock  of  the  pictures. 
Undoubtedly  this  was  the  "little  son." 

He  had  no  business  in  my  room,  of  cours-^;  but 
was  so  deeply  absorbed  in  his  discoveries  that  he 
never  noticed  me  in  the  doorway.  I  stepped  into 
the  room  and  startled  him  nearly  into  a  fit.  He 
sat  down  on  the  ground  with  a  gasp.  His  eyes 
opened,  and  his  mouth  followed  suit.  I  knew 
what  was  coming,  and  fled,  followed  by  a  long, 
dry  howl  which  reached  the  servants'  quarters 
far  more  quickly  than  any  command  of  mine  had 
ever  done.  In  ten  seconds  Imam  Din  was  in  the 
dining-r  jom.  Then  despairing  sobs  arose,  and  I 
returned  to  find  Imam  Din  admonishing  the  small 
sinner  who  was  using  most  of  his  shirt  as  a  hand- 
kerchief. 

"This  boy,"  said  Imam  Din,  judicially,  "is  a 
biidmash — a  big  biidmash.  He  will,  without 
doubt,  go  to  the  jail-hhana  for  his  behavior." 
Renewed  yells  from  the  penitent,  and  an  elab- 
orate apology  to  myself  from  Imam  Din. 

"Tell  the  baby,"  said  I,  "that  the  Sahib  is  not 
angry,  and  take  him  away,"  Imam  Din  conveyed 
my  forgiveness  to  the  offender,  who  had  now 


The  Story  of  Muhammad  Din  165 

gathered  all  his  shirt  round  his  neck,  stringwise, 
and  the  yell  subsided  into  a  sob.  The  two  set 
off  for  the  door.  "His  name,"  said  Imam  Din, 
as  though  the  name  were  part  of  the  crime,  "is 
Muhammad  Din,  and  he  is  a  budmash."  Freed 
from  present  danger,  Muhammad  Din  turned 
round  in  his  father's  arms,  and  said  gravely,  "It 
is  true  that  my  name  is  Muhammad  Din,  Tahib, 
but  1  am  not  a  budmash.     1  am  a  man  !  " 

From  that  day  dated  my  acquaintance  with 
Muhammad  Din.  Never  again  did  he  come  into 
my  dining-room,  but  on  the  neutral  ground  of 
the  garden,  we  greeted  each  other  with  much 
state,  though  our  conversation  was  confined  to 
"  Talaam,  Tahib"  from  his  side,  and  ''Salaam, 
Muhammad  Din  "  from  mine.  Daily  on  my  re- 
turn from  office,  the  little  white  shirt,  and  the  fat 
little  body  used  to  rise  from  the  shade  of  the 
creeper-covered  trellis  where  they  had  been  hid ; 
and  daily  I  checked  my  horse  here,  that  my  salu- 
tation might  not  be  slurred  over  or  given  un- 
seemly. 

Muhammad  Din  never  had  any  companions. 
He  used  to  trot  about  the  compound,  in  and  out 
of  the  castor-oil  bushes,  on  mysterious  errands  of 
his  own.  One  day  I  stumbled  upon  some  of  his 
handiwork  far  down  the  grounds.  He  had  half 
buried  the  polo-ball  in  dust,  and  stuck  six  shriv- 
eled old  marigold  flowers  in  a  circle  round  it. 


1 66  Indian  Tales 

Outside  that  circle  again  was  a  rude  square,  traced 
out  in  bits  of  red  brick  alternating  with  fragments 
of  broken  china;  the  whole  bounded  by  a  little 
bank  of  dust.  The  water-man  from  the  well- 
curb  put  in  a  plea  for  the  small  architect,  saying 
that  it  was  only  the  play  of  a  baby  and  did  not 
much  disfigure  my  garden. 

Heaven  knows  that  1  had  no  intention  of  touch- 
ing the  child's  work  then  or  later;  but,  that  even- 
ing, a  stroll  through  the  garden  brought  me  una- 
wares full  on  it;  so  that  1  trampled,  before  I  knew, 
marigold-heads,  dust-bank,  and  fragments  of 
broken  soap-dish  into  confusion  past  all  hope  of 
mending.  Next  morning,  I  came  upon  Muham- 
mad Din  crying  softly  to  himself  over  the  ruin  I 
had  wrought.  Some  one  had  cruelly  told  him 
that  the  Sahib  was  very  angry  with  him  for  spoil- 
ing the  garden,  and  had  scattered  his  rubbish, 
using  bad  language  the  while.  Muhammad  Din 
labored  for  an  hour  at  effacing  every  trace  of  the 
dust-bank  and  pottery  fragments,  and  it  was  with 
a  tearful  and  apologetic  face  that  he  said  "  Talaam, 
Tahib,"  when  I  came  home  from  office.  A  hasty 
inquiry  resulted  in  Imam  Din  informing  Muham- 
mad Din  that,  by  my  singular  favor,  he  was  per- 
mitted to  disport  himself  as  he  pleased.  Whereat 
the  child  took  heart  and  fell  to  tracing  the  ground- 
plan  of  an  edifice  v/hich  was  to  eclipse  the  mari- 
gold-polo-ball creation. 


7he  Story  of  Muhammad  Din  167 

For  some  months,  the  chubby  little  eccentricity 
revolved  in  his  humble  orbit  among  the  castor- 
oil  bushes  and  in  the  dust;  always  fashioning 
magnificent  palaces  from  stale  flowers  thrown 
away  by  the  bearer,  smooth  water-worn  pebbles, 
bits  of  broken  glass,  and  feathers  pulled,  1  fancy, 
from  my  fowls — always  alone,  and  always 
crooning  to  himself. 

A  gaily-spotted  sea-shell  was  dropped  one  day 
close  to  the  last  of  his  little  buildings;  and  I 
looked  that  Muhammad  Din  should  build  some- 
thing more  than  ordinarily  splendid  on  the 
strength  of  it.  Nor  was  I  disappointed.  He 
meditated  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour,  and  his 
crooning  rose  to  a  jubilant  song.  Then  he  began 
tracing  in  the  dust,  it  would  certainly  be  a 
wondrous  palace,  this  one,  for  it  was  two  yards 
long  and  a  yard  broad  in  ground-plan.  But  the 
palace  was  never  completed. 

Next  day  there  was  no  Muhammad  Din  at  the 
head  of  the  carriage-drive,  and  no  "  Talaam, 
Tahib"  to  welcome  my  return.  I  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  greeting,  and  its  omission 
troubled  me.  Next  day  Imam  Din  told  me  that 
the  child  was  suffering  slightly  from  fever  and 
needed  quinine.  He  got  the  medicine,  and  an 
English  Doctor. 

"They  have  no  stamina,  these  brats,"  said  the 
Doctor,  as  he  left  Imam  Din's  quarters. 


i68  Indian  Tales 

A  week  later,  though  I  would  have  given  much 
to  have  avoided  it,  1  met  on  the  road  to  the 
Mussulman  burying-ground  Imam  Din,  accom- 
panied by  one  other  friend,  carrying  in  his  arms, 
wrapped  in  a  white  cloth,  all  that  was  left  of 
little  Muhammad  Din. 


IN  FLOOD  TIME 

Tweed  said  tae  Till  : 

"What  gars  ye  rin  sae  Still?" 

Till  said  tae  Tweed  : 

"  Though  ye  rin  wi'  speed 

An'  I  rin  slaw — 

Yet  where  ye  droon  ae  man 

I  droon  twa." 

THERE  is  no  getting  over  the  river  to-night, 
Sahib.  They  say  that  a  bullock-cart  has 
been  washed  down  already,  and  the  ekka  that 
went  over  a  half  hour  before  you  came,  has  not 
yet  reached  the  far  side.  Is  the  Sahib  in  haste  ? 
1  will  drive  the  ford-elephant  in  to  show  him. 
Ohe,  mahout  there  in  the  shed!  Bring  out  Ram 
Pershad,  and  if  he  will  face  the  current,  good. 
An  elephant  never  lies,  Sahib,  and  Ram  Pershad 
is  separated  from  his  friend  Kala  Nag.  He,  too, 
wishes  to  cross  to  the  far  side.  Well  done! 
Well  done!  my  King!  Go  half  way  across, 
mahoutji,  and  see  what  the  river  says.  Well 
done.  Ram  Pershad!  Pearl  among  elephants,  go 
into  the  river!  Hit  him  on  the  head,  fool!  Was 
the  goad  made  only  to  scratch  thy  own  fat  back 
with,  bastard.^  Strike!  Strike!  What  are  the 
i6q 


1 70  Indian   Tales 

boulders  to  thee,  Ram  Pershad,  my  Rustum,  my 
mountain  of  strength  ?    Go  in!"   Go  in! 

No,  Sahib!  It  is  useless.  You  can  hear  him 
trumpet.  He  is  telling  Kala  Nag  ihat  he  cannot 
come  over.  See!  He  has  swung  round  and  is 
shaking  his  head.  He  is  no  fool.  He  knows 
what  the  Barhwi  means  when  it  is  angry.  Aha! 
Indeed,  thou  art  no  fool,  my  child!  Salaam, 
Ram  Pershad,  Bahadur!  Take  him  under  the 
trees,  mahout,  and  see  that  he  gets  his  spices. 
Well  done,  thou  chief  est  among  tuskers.  Salaam 
to  the  Sirkar  and  go  to  sleep. 

What  is  to  be  done  ?  The  Sahib  must  wait  till 
the  river  goes  down,  it  will  shrink  to-morrow 
morning,  if  God  pleases,  or  the  day  after  at  the 
latest.  Now  why  does  the  Sahib  get  so  angry  ? 
I  am  his  servant.  Before  God,  /  did  not  create 
this  stream!  What  can  I  do?  My  hut  and  all 
that  is  therein  is  at  the  service  of  the  Sahib,  and 
it  is  beginning  to  rain.  Come  away,  my  Lord. 
How  will  the  river  go  dov/n  for  your  throwing 
abuse  at  it  ?  In  the  old  days  the  English  people 
were  not  thus.  The  fire-carriage  has  made  them 
soft.  In  the  old  days,  when  they  drave  behind 
horses  by  day  or  by  night,  they  said  naught  if  a 
river  barred  the  way,  or  a  carriage  sat  down  in 
the  mud.  It  was  the  will  of  God — not  like  a 
fire-carriage  which  goes  and  goes  and  goes,  and 
would  go  though  all  the  devils  in  the  land  hung 


In  Flood  Time  171 

on  to  its  tail.  The  fire-carriage  hath  spoiled  the 
English  people.  After  all,  what  is  a  day  lost,  or, 
for  that  matter,  what  are  two  days  ?  Is  the 
Sahib  going  to  his  own  wedding,  that  he  is  so 
mad  with  haste?  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  I  am  an  old 
man  and  see  few  Sahibs.  Forgive  me  if  1  have 
forgotten  the  respect  that  is  due  to  them.  The 
Sahib  is  not  angry  } 

His  own  wedding!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  The 
mind  of  an  old  man  is  like  the  nnmah-tree. 
Fruit,  bud,  blossom,  and  the  dead  leaves  of  all 
the  years  of  the  past  flourish  together.  Old  and 
new  and  that  which  is  gone  out  of  remembrance, 
all  three  are  there!  Sit  on  the  bedstead.  Sahib, 
and  drink  milk.  Or — would  the  Sahib  in  truth 
care  to  drink  my  tobacco  ?  It  is  good.  It  is  the 
tobacco  of  Nuklao.  My  son,  who  is  in  service 
there  sent  it  to  me.  Drink,  then,  Sahib,  if  you 
know  how  to  handle  the  tube.  The  Sahib  takes 
it  like  a  Musalman.  Wah!  Wah!  Where  did 
he  learn  that  .^  His  own  wedding!  Ho!  Ho! 
Ho!  The  Sahib  says  that  there  is  no  wedding 
in  the  matter  at  all  ?  Now  is  it  likely  that  the 
Sahib  would  speak  true  talk  to  me  who  am  only 
a  black  man  ?  Sm.all  wonder,  then,  that  he  is  in 
haste.  Thirty  years  have  I  beaten  the  gong  at 
this  ford,  but  never  have  I  seen  a  Sahib  in  such 
haste.  Thirty  years,  Sahib!  That  is  a  very  long 
time.     Thirty  years  ago  this  ford  was  on  the 


172  Indian  Tales 

track  of  the  bunjaras,  and  I  have  seen  two  thou- 
sand pack-bullocks  cross  in  one  night.  Now  the 
rai\  has  come,  and  the  fire-carriage  says  bui-bui- 
bu^,  and  a  hundred  lakhs  of  maunds  slide  across 
that  big  bridge.  It  is  very  wonderful;  but  the 
ford  is  lonely  now  that  there  are  no  bunjaras  to 
camp  under  the  trees. 

Nay,  do  not  trouble  to  look  at  the  sky  without. 
It  will  rain  till  the  dawn.  Listen!  The  boulders 
are  talking  to-night  in  the  bed  of  the  river.  Hear 
them!  They  would  be  husking  your  bones.  Sa- 
hib, had  you  tried  to  cross.  See,  I  will  shut  the 
door  and  no  rain  can  enter.  IVahi!  Ahi!  Ugh! 
Thirty  years  on  the  banks  of  the  ford!  An  old 
man  am  I  and — where  is  the  oil  for  the  lamp  ? 


Your  pardon,  but,  because  of  my  years,  I  sleep 
no  sounder  than  a  dog;  and  you  moved  to  the 
door.  Look  then,  Sahib.  Look  and  listen.  A 
full  half  kos  from  bank  to  bank  is  the  stream 
now — you  can  see  it  under  the  stars — and  there 
are  ten  feet  of  water  therein.  It  will  not  shrink 
because  of  the  anger  in  your  eyes,  and  it  will  not 
be  quiet  on  account  of  your  curses.  Which  is 
louder,  Sahib — your  voice  or  the  voice  of  the 
river  ?  Call  to  it — perhaps  it  will  be  ashamed. 
Lie  down  and  sleep  afresh,  Sahib.  I  know  the 
anger  of  the  Barhwi  when  there  has  fallen  rain 


In  Flood  Time  173 

in  the  foot-hills.  I  swam  the  flood,  once,  on  a 
night  tenfold  worse  than  this,  and  by  the  Favor 
of  God  I  was  released  from  Death  when  I  had 
come  to  the  very  gates  thereof. 

May  I  tell  the  tale?  Very  good  talk.  I  will 
fill  the  pipe  anew. 

Thirty  years  ago  it  was,  when  1  was  a  young 
man  and  had  but  newly  come  to  the  ford.  1  was 
strong  then,  and  the  buiijaras  had  no  doubt  when 
I  said  "this  ford  is  clear."  1  have  toiled  all  night 
up  to  my  shoulder-blades  in  running  water  amid 
a  hundred  bullocks  mad  with  fear,  and  have 
brought  them  across  losing  not  a  hoof.  When 
all  was  done  I  fetched  the  shivering  men,  and 
they  gave  me  for  reward  the  pick  of  their  cattle 
— the  bell-bullock  of  the  drove.  So  great  was 
the  honor  in  which  I  was  held!  But,  to-day 
when  the  rain  falls  and  the  river  rises,  I  creep  into 
my  hut  and  whimper  like  a  dog.  My  strength  is 
gone  from  me.  I  am  an  old  man  and  the  fire- 
carriage  has  made  the  ford  desolate.  They  were 
wont  to  call  me  the  Strong  One  of  the  Barhwi. 

Behold  my  face,  Sahib — it  is  the  face  of  a 
monkey.  And  my  arm — it  is  the  arm  of  an  old 
woman.  I  swear  to  you,  Sahib,  that  a  woman 
has  loved  this  face  and  has  rested  in  the  hollow 
of  this  arm.  Twenty  years  ago,  Sahib.  Believe 
me,  this  was  true  talk — twenty  years  ago. 

Come  to  the  door  and  look  across.     Can  you 


J  74  Indian  Tales 

see  a  thin  fire  very  far  away  dov/n  the  stream  ? 
That  is  the  temple-fire,  in  the  shrine  of  Hanuman, 
of  the  village  of  Pateera.  North,  under  the  big 
star,  is  the  village  itself,  but  it  is  hidden  by  a 
bend  of  the  river.  Is  that  far  to  swim,  Sahib  ? 
Would  you  take  off  your  clothes  and  adventure  ? 
Yet  1  swam  to  Pateera — not  once  but  many  times; 
and  there  are  muggers  in  the  river  too. 

Love  knows  no  caste;  else  why  should  I,  a 
Musalman  and  the  son  of  a  Musalman,  have 
sought  a  Hindu  woman — a  widow  of  the  Hindus 
— the  sister  of  the  headman  of  Pateera  ?  But  it 
was  even  so.  They  of  the  headman's  household 
came  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Muttra  when  She  was 
but  newly  a  bride.  Silver  tires  were  upon  the 
wheels  of  the  bullock-cart,  and  silken  curtains 
hid  the  woman.  Sahib,  I  made  no  haste  in  their 
conveyance,  for  the  wind  parted  the  curtains  and 
I  saw  Her.  When  they  returned  from  pilgrimage 
the  boy  that  was  Her  husband  had  died,  and  I 
saw  Her  again  in  the  bullock-cart.  By  God, 
these  Hindus  are  fools!  What  was  it  to  me 
whether  She  was  Hindu  or  Jain — scavenger, 
leper,  or  whole.?  I  would  have  married  Her  and 
made  Her  a  home  by  the  ford.  The  Seventh  of 
the  Nine  Bars  says  that  a  man  may  not  marry 
one  of  the  idolaters .?  Is  that  truth  ?  Both  Shiahs 
and  Sunnis  say  that  a  Musalman  may  not  marry 
one  of  the  idolaters  ?    Is  the  Sahib  a  priest,  then, 


In  Flood  Time  175 

that  he  knows  so  much  ?  !  will  tell  him  some- 
thing that  he  does  not  know.  There  is  neither 
Shiah  nor  Sunni,  forbidden  nor  idolater,  in  Love; 
and  the  Nine  Bars  are  but  nine  little  fagots  that 
the  flame  of  Love  utterly  burns  away.  In  truth, 
I  would  have  taken  Her;  but  what  could  I  do? 
The  headman  would  have  sent  his  men  to  break 
my  head  with  staves.  I  am  not — I  was  not — 
afraid  of  any  five  men;  but  against  half  a  village 
who  can  prevail  ? 

Therefore  it  was  my  custom,  these  things  hav- 
ing been  arranged  betv/een  us  twain,  to  go  by 
night  to  the  village  of  Pateera,  and  there  we  met 
among  the  crops;  no  man  knowing  aught  of  the 
matter.  Behold,  now!  I  was  wont  to  cross  here, 
skirting  the  jungle  to  the  river  bend  where  the 
railway  bridge  is,  and  thence  across  the  elbow  of 
land  to  Pateera.  The  light  of  the  shrine  was  my 
guide  when  the  nights  were  dark.  That  jungle 
near  the  river  is  very  full  of  snakes — little  karaits 
that  sleep  on  the  sand — and  moreover,  Her  broth- 
ers would  have  slain  me  had  they  found  me  in 
the  crops.  But  none  knew — none  knew  save 
She  and  I;  and  the  blown  sand  of  the  river-bed 
covered  the  track  of  my  feet.  In  the  hot  months 
it  was  an  easy  thing  to  pass  from  the  ford  to 
Pateera,  and  in  the  first  Rains,  when  the  river 
rose  slowly,  it  was  an  easy  thing  also.  I  set  the 
strength  of  my  body  against  the  strength  of  the 


176  Indian  Tales 

stream,  and  nightly  I  ate  in  my  hut  here  and 
drank  at  Pateera  yonder.  She  had  said  that  one 
Hirnam  Singh,  a  thief,  had  sought  Her,  and  he 
was  of  a  village  up  the  river  but  on  the  same 
bank.  All  Sikhs  are  dogs,  and  they  have  refused 
in  their  folly  that  good  gift  of  God — tobacco.  1 
was  ready  to  destroy  Hirnam  Singh  tnat  ever  he 
had  come  nigh  Her;  and  the  more  because  he  had 
sworn  to  Her  that  She  had  a  lover,  and  that  he 
would  He  in  wait  and  give  the  name  to  the  head- 
man unless  She  went  away  with  him.  What  curs 
are  these  Sikhs! 

After  that  news,  I  swam  always  with  a  little 
sharp  knife  in  my  belt,  and  evil  would  it  have 
been  for  a  man  had  he  stayed  me.  I  knew  not 
the  face  of  Hirnam  Singh,  but  I  would  have  killed 
any  who  came  between  me  and  Her. 

Upon  a  night  in  the  beginning  of  the  Rains,  I 
was  minded  to  go  across  to  Pateera,  albeit  the 
river  was  angry.  Now  the  nature  of  the  Barhwi 
is  this.  Sahib.  !n  twenty  breaths  it  comes  down 
from  the  Hills,  a  wall  three  feet  high,  and  I  have 
seen  it,  between  the  lighting  of  a  fire  and  the 
cooking  of  a  chupatty,  grow  from  a  runnel  to  a 
sister  of  the  Jumna. 

When  '  left  this  bank  there  was  a  shoal  a  half 
mile  down,  and  I  made  shift  to  fetch  it  and  draw 
breath  there  ere  going  forward;  for  I  felt  the 
hands  ci  the  river  heavy  upon  my  heels.     Yet 


k  Flood  Time  ijy 

what  will  a  young  man  not  do  for  Love's  sake? 
There  was  but  little  light  from  the  stars,  and  mid- 
way to  the  shoal  a  branch  of  the  stinking  deodar 
tree  brushed  my  mouth  as  I  swam.  That  was  a 
sign  of  heavy  rain  in  the  foot-hills  and  beyond, 
tor  the  deodar  is  a  strong  tree,  not  easily  shaken 
from  the  hillsides.  1  made  haste,  the  river  aid- 
ing me,  but  ere  I  had  touched  the  shoal,  the  pulse 
of  the  stream  beat,  as  it  were,  within  me  and 
around,  and,  behold,  the  shoal  was  gone  and  I 
rode  high  on  the  crest  of  a  wave  that  ran  from 
bank  to  bank.  Has  the  Sahib  ever  been  cast  into 
much  water  that  fights  and  will  not  let  a  man  use 
his  limbs  ?  To  me,  my  head  upon  the  water,  it 
seemed  as  though  there  were  naught  but  water 
to  the  world's  end,  and  the  river  drave  me  with 
its  driftwood.  A  man  is  a  very  little  thing  in  the 
belly  of  a  flood.  And  this  flood,  though  I  knew 
it  not,  was  the  Great  Flood  about  which  men 
talk  still.  My  liver  was  dissolved  and  1  lay  like 
a  log  upon  my  back  in  the  fear  of  Death.  There 
were  living  things  in  the  water,  crying  and  howl- 
ing grievously — beasts  of  the  forest  and  cattle, 
and  once  the  voice  of  a  man  asking  for  help. 
But  the  rain  came  and  lashed  the  water  white, 
and  1  heard  no  more  save  the  roar  of  the  boulders 
below  and  the  roar  of  the  rain  above.  Thus  I 
was  whirled  down-stream,  wrestling  for  the 
breath  in  me.     It  is  very  hard  to  die  when  one  is 


1 78  Indian  Tales 

young.  Can  the  Sahib,  standing  here,  see  the 
railway  bridge  ?  Look,  there  are  the  lights  of 
the  mail-train  going  to  Peshawur!  The  bridge  is 
now  twenty  feet  above  the  river,  but  upon  that 
night  the  water  was  roaring  against  the  lattice- 
work and  against  the  lattice  came  I  feet  first. 
But  much  driftwood  was  piled  there  and  upon 
the  piers,  and  1  took  no  great  hurt.  Only  the 
river  pressed  me  as  a  strong  man  presses  a 
weaker.  Scarcely  could  I  take  hold  of  the  lattice- 
work and  crawl  to  the  upper  boom.  Sahib,  the 
water  was  foaming  across  the  rails  a  foot  deep! 
Judge  therefore  what  manner  of  flood  it  must 
have  been.  I  could  not  hear.  I  could  not  see. 
I  could  but  lie  on  the  boom  and  pant  for  breath. 
After  a  while  the  rain  ceased  and  there  came 
out  in  the  sky  certain  new  washed  stars,  and  by 
their  light  I  saw  that  there  was  no  end  to  the 
black  water  as  far  as  the  eye  could  travel,  and 
the  water  had  risen  upon  the  rails.  There  were 
dead  beasts  in  the  driftwood  on  the  piers,  and 
others  caught  by  the  neck  in  the  lattice-work, 
and  others  not  yet  drowned  who  strove  to  find  a 
foothold  on  the  lattice-work — buffaloes  and  kine, 
and  wild  pig,  and  deer  one  or  two,  and  snakes 
and  jackals  past  all  counting.  Their  bodies  were 
black  upon  the  left  side  of  the  bridge,  but  the 
smaller  of  them  were  forced  through  the  lattice- 
work and  whirled  down-stream. 


In  Flood  Time  179 

Thereafter  the  stars  died  and  the  rain  came 
down  afresh  and  the  river  rose  yet  more,  and  I 
felt  the  bridge  begin  to  stir  under  me  as  a  man 
stirs  in  his  sleep  ere  he  wakes.  But  1  was  not 
afraid,  Sahib.  1  swear  to  you  that  I  was  not 
afraid,  though  I  had  no  power  in  my  limbs.  I 
knew  that  I  should  not  die  till  I  had  seen  Her 
once  more.  But  I  was  very  cold,  and  I  felt  that 
the  bridge  must  go. 

There  was  a  trembling  in  the  water,  such  a 
trembling  as  goes  before  the  coming  of  a  great 
wave,  and  the  bridge  lifted  its  flank  to  the  rush 
of  that  coming  so  that  the  right  lattice  dipped 
under  water  and  the  left  rose  clear.  On  my 
beard,  Sahib,  I  am  speaking  God's  truth!  Asa 
Mirzapore  stone-boat  careens  to  the  wind,  so  the 
Barhwi  Bridge  turned.  Thus  and  in  no  other 
manner. 

1  slid  from  the  boom  into  deep  water,  and  be- 
hind me  came  the  wave  of  the  wrath  of  the  river. 
I  heard  its  voice  and  the  screami  of  the  middle 
part  of  the  bridge  as  it  moved  from  the  piers  and 
sank,  and  I  knew  no  more  till  I  rose  in  the 
middle  of  the  great  flood.  I  put  forth  my  hand 
to  swim,  and  lo!  it  fell  upon  the  knotted  hair  of 
the  head  of  a  man.  He  was  dead,  for  no  one 
but  I,  the  Strong  One  of  Barhwi,  could  have 
lived  in  that  race.  He  had  been  dead  full  two 
days,  for  he  rode  high,  wallowing,  and  was  an 


l8o  Indian    Tales 

aid  to  me.  I  laughed  then,  knowing  for  a  surety 
that  I  should  yet  see  Her  and  take  no  harm ;  and  1 
twisted  my  fingers  in  the  hair  of  the  man,  for  1 
was  far  spent,  and  together  we  went  down  the 
stream — he  the  dead  and  I  the  living.  Lacking 
that  help  I  should  have  sunk:  the  cold  was  in  my 
marrow,  and  my  flesh  was  ribbed  and  sodden  on 
my  bones.  But  he  had  no  fear  who  had  known 
the  uttermost  of  the  power  of  the  river;  and  1  let 
him  go  where  he  chose.  At  last  we  came  into 
the  power  of  a  side-current  that  set  to  the  right 
bank,  and  I  strove  with  my  feet  to  draw  with  it. 
But  the  dead  man  swung  heavily  in  the  whirl, 
and  I  feared  that  some  branch  had  struck  him 
and  that  he  would  sink.  The  tops  of  the  tama- 
risk brushed  my  knees,  so  1  knew  we  v/ere  come 
into  flood-water  above  the  crops,  and,  after,  I  let 
down  my  legs  and  felt  bottom — the  ridge  of  a 
field — and,  after,  the  dead  man  stayed  upon  a 
knoll  under  a  fig-tree,  and  !  drew  my  body  from 
the  water  rejoicing. 

Does  the  Sahib  know  whither  the  backwash  of 
the  flood  had  borne  me  }  To  the  knoll  which  is 
the  eastern  boundary-mark  of  the  village  of 
Pateera!  No  other  place.  1  drew  the  dead  man 
up  on  the  grass  for  the  service  that  he  had  done 
me,  and  also  because  I  knew  not  whether  I 
should  need  him  again.  Then  I  went,  crying 
thrice  like  a  jackal,  to  the  appointed  place  which 


In  Flood  Time  i8i 

was  near  the  byre  of  the  headman's  house.  But 
my  Love  was  already  there,  weeping.  She 
feared  that  the  flood  had  swept  my  hut  at  the 
Barhwi  Ford.  When  I  came  softly  through  the 
ankle-deep  water,  She  thought  it  was  a  ghost  and 
would  have  fled,  but  1  put  my  arms  round  Her, 
and — I  was  no  ghost  in  those  days,  though  I  am 
an  old  man  now.  Ho!  Ho!  Dried  corn,  in 
truth.     Maize  without  juice.     Ho!     Ho!^ 

I  told  Her  the  story  of  the  breaking  of  the 
Barhwi  Bridge,  and  She  said  that  I  was  greater 
than  mortal  man,  for  none  may  cross  the  Barhwi 
in  full  flood,  and  I  had  seen  what  never  man  had 
seen  before.  Hand  in  hand  we  went  to  the 
knoll  where  the  dead  lay,  and  I  showed  Her  by 
what  help  I  had  made  the  ford.  She  looked  also 
upon  the  body  under  the  stars,  for  the  latter  end 
of  the  night  was  clear,  and  hid  Her  face  in  Her 
hands,  crying:  "It  is  the  body  of  Hirnam 
Singh!"  I  said:  "The  swine  is  of  more  use 
dead  than  living,  my  Beloved,"  and  She  said: 
"  Surely,  for  he  has  saved  the  dearest  life  in  the 
world  to  my  love.  None  the  less,  he  cannot 
stay  here,  for  that  would  bring  shame  upon  me." 
The  body  was  not  a  gunshot  from  her  door. 

Then  said  I,  rolling  the  body  with  my  hands: 
"God  hath  judged  between  us,  Hirnam  Singh, 

'  I  grieve  to  say  that  the  Warden  of  Barhwi  ford  is  re- 
sponsible here  for  two  very  bad  puns  in  the  vernacular. — R.  K. 


1 82  Indian  Tales 

that  thy  blood  might  not  be  upon  my  head. 
Now,  whether  I  have  done  thee  a  wrong  in 
keeping  thee  from  the  burning-ghat,  do  thou  and 
the  crows  settle  together."  So  1  cast  him  adrift 
into  the  flood-water,  and  he  was  drawn  out  to 
the  open,  ever  wagging  his  thick  black  beard  like 
a  priest  under  the  pulpit-board.  And  1  saw  no 
more  of  Hirnam  Singh. 

Before  the  breaking  of  the  day  we  two  parted, 
and  I  moved  toward  such  of  the  jungle  as  was 
not  flooded.  With  the  full  light  I  saw  what  I  had 
done  in  the  darkness,  and  the  bones  of  my  body 
were  loosened  in  my  flesh,  for  there  ran  two  Jws 
of  raging  water  between  the  village  of  Pateera 
and  the  trees  of  the  far  bank,  and,  in  the  middle, 
the  piers  of  the  Barhwi  Bridge  showed  like 
broken  teeth  in  the  jaw  of  an  old  man.  Nor  was 
there  any  life  upon  the  waters — neither  birds 
nor  boats,  but  only  an  army  of  drowned  things 
— bullocks  and  horses  and  men — and  the  river 
was  redder  than  blood  from  the  clay  of  the  foot- 
hills. Never  had  i  seen  such  a  flood — never 
since  that  year  have  I  seen  the  like — and,  O 
Sahib,  no  man  living  had  done  what  I  had  done. 
There  was  no  return  for  me  that  day.  Not  for 
all  the  lands  of  the  headman  would  I  venture  a 
second  time  without  the  shield  of  darkness  that 
cloaks  danger.  I  went  a  kos  up  the  river  to  the 
house  of  a  blacksmith,  saying  that  the  flood  had 


In  Flood  Time  183 

swept  me  from  my  hut,  and  they  gave  me  food. 
Seven  days  I  stayed  with  the  blacksmith,  till  a 
boat  came  and  1  returned  to  my  house.  There 
was  no  trace  of  wall,  or  roof,  or  floor — naught 
but  a  patch  of  slimy  mud.  Judge,  therefore, 
Sahib,  how  far  the  river  must  have  risen. 

It  was  written  that  1  should  not  die  either  in 
my  house,  or  in  the  heart  of  the  Barhwi,  or 
under  the  wreck  of  the  Barhwi  Bridge,  for  God 
sent  down  Hirnam  Singh  two  days  dead,  though 
I  know  not  how  the  man  died,  to  be  my  buoy 
and  support.  Hirnam  Singh  has  been  in  Hell 
these  twenty  years,  and  the  thought  of  that  night 
must  be  the  flower  of  his  torment. 

Listen,  Sahib!  The  river  has  changed  its  voice. 
It  is  going  to  sleep  before  the  dawn,  to  which 
there  is  yet  one  hour.  With  the  light  it  will 
come  down  afresh.  How  do  1  know  ?  Have  I 
been  here  thirty  years  without  knowing  the  voice 
of  the  river  as  a  father  knows  the  voice  of  his 
son  ?  Every  moment  it  is  talking  less  angrily.  I 
swear  that  there  will  be  no  danger  for  one  hour 
or,  perhaps,  two.  I  cannot  answer  for  the  morn- 
ing. Be  quick.  Sahib!  I  will  call  Ram  Pershad, 
and  he  will  not  turn  back  this  time.  Is  the 
paulin  tightly  corded  upon  all  the  baggage "? 
Ohe,  mahout  with  a  mud  head,  the  elephant  for 
the  Sahib,  and  tell  them  on  the  far  side  that  there 
will  be  no  crossing  after  daylight. 


184  Indian  Tales 

Money?  Nay,  Sahib.  I  am  not  of  that  kind. 
No,  not  even  to  give  sweetmeats  to  the  baby- 
folk.  My  house,  look  you,  is  empty,  and  I  am 
an  old  man. 

Dtttt,  Ram  Pershad!  Diitt !  Duit!  Duttl 
Good  luck  go  with  you,  Sahib. 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 

As  I  came  through  the  Desert  thus  it  was — 
As  I  came  through  the  Desert. 

—  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  Other  World,  where 
there  are  books  and  pictures  and  plays 
and  shop-windows  to  look  at,  and  thousands 
of  men  who  spend  their  lives  in  building  up  all 
four,  lives  a  gentleman  who  writes  real  stories 
about  the  real  insides  of  people;  and  his  name 
is  Mr.  Walter  Besant.  But  he  will  insist  upon 
treating  his  ghosts  —  he  has  published  half  a 
workshopful  of  them — with  levity.  He  makes 
his  ghost-seers  talk  familiarly,  and,  in  some  cases, 
flirt  outrageously,  with  the  phantoms.  You  may 
treat  anything,  from  a  Viceroy  to  a  Vernacular 
Paper,  with  levity;  but  you  must  behave  rever- 
ently toward  a  ghost,  and  particularly  an  Indian 
one. 

There  are,  in  this  land,  ghosts  who  take  the 
form  of  fat,  cold,  pobby  corpses,  and  hide  in  trees 
near  the  roadside  till  a  traveler  passes.  Then 
they  drop  upon  his  neck  and  remain.  There  are 
also  terrible  ghosts  of  women  who  have  died  in 
child-bed.  These  wander  along  the  pathways  at 
l85 


1 86  Indian  Tales 

dusk,  or  hide  in  the  crops  near  a  village,  and  call 
seductively.  But  to  answer  their  call  is  death  in 
this  world  and  the  next.  Their  feet  are  turned 
backward  that  all  sober  men  may  recognize 
them.  There  are  ghosts  of  little  children  who 
have  been  thrown  into  wells.  These  haunt  well- 
curbs  and  the  fringes  of  jungles,  and  wail  under 
the  stars,  or  catch  women  by  the  wrist  and  beg 
to  be  taken  up  and  carried.  These  and  the 
corpse-ghosts,  however,  are  only  vernacular  ar- 
ticles and  do  not  attack  Sahibs.  No  native  ghost 
has  yet  been  authentically  reported  to  have 
frightened  an  Englishman;  but  many  English 
ghosts  have  scared  the  life  out  of  both  white  and 
black. 

Nearly  every  other  Station  owns  a  ghost. 
There  are  said  to  be  two  at  Simla,  not  counting 
the  woman  who  blows  the  bellows  at  Syree  dak- 
bungalow  on  the  Old  Road;  Mussoorie  has  a 
house  haunted  of  a  very  lively  Thing;  a  White 
Lady  is  supposed  to  do  night-watchman  round  a 
house  in  Lahore;  Dalhousie  says  that  one  of  her 
houses  "repeats"  on  autumn  evenings  all  the  in- 
cidents of  a  horrible  horse-and-precipice  acci- 
dent; Murree  has  a  merry  ghost,  and,  now  that 
she  has  been  swept  by  cholera,  will  have  room. 
for  a  sorrowful  one;  there  are  Officers'  Quarters 
in  Mian  Mir  whose  doors  open  without  reason, 
and  whose  furniture  is  guaranteed  to  creak,  not 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  i^j 

with  the  heat  of  June  but  with  the  weight  of  In- 
visibles who  come  to  lounge  in  the  chair;  Pesha- 
wur  possesses  houses  that  none  will  willingly 
rent;  and  there  is  something — not  fever — wrong 
with  a  big  bungalow  in  Allahabad.  The  older 
Provinces  simply  bristle  with  haunted  houses, 
and  march  phantom  armies  along  their  main 
thoroughfares. 

Some  of  the  dak-bungalows  on  the  Grand 
Trunk  Road  have  handy  little  cemeteries  in  their 
compound — witnesses  to  the  "changes  and 
chances  of  this  mortal  life"  in  the  days  when 
men  drove  from  Calcutta  to  the  Northwest. 
These  bungalows  are  objectionable  places  to  put 
up  in.  They  are  generally  very  old,  always 
dirty,  while  the  khansamah  is  as  ancient  as  the 
bungalow.  He  either  chatters  senilely,  or  falls 
into  the  long  trances  of  age.  In  both  moods  he 
is  useless.  If  you  get  angry  with  him,  he  refers 
to  some  Sahib  dead  and  buried  these  thirty  years, 
and  says  that  when  he  was  in  that  Sahib's  service 
not  a  khansamah  in  the  Province  could  touch 
him  Then  he  jabbers  and  mows  and  trembles 
and  fidgets  among  the  dishes,  and  you  repent  of 
your  irritation. 

In  these  dak-bungalows,  ghosts  are  most  likely 
to  be  found,  and  when  found,  they  should  be 
made  a  note  of.  Not  long  ago  it  was  my  busi- 
ness to  live  in  dak-bungalows,     I  never  inhabited 


1 88  Indian  Tales 

the  same  house  for  three  nights  running,  and 
grew  to  be  learned  in  the  breed.  1  lived  in 
Government-built  ones  with  red  brick  walls  and 
rail  ceilings,  an  inventory  of  the  furniture  posted 
in  every  room,  and  an  excited  snake  at  the 
threshold  to  give  welcome.  1  lived  in  "con- 
verted "  ones — old  houses  officiating  as  dak-bun- 
galows— where  nothing  was  in  its  proper  place 
and  there  wasn't  even  a  fowl  for  dinner.  I  lived 
in  second-hand  palaces  where  the  wind  blew 
through  open-work  marble  tracery  just  as  un- 
comfortably as  through  a  broken  pane.  I  lived 
in  dak-bungalows  where  the  last  entry  in  the 
visitors'  book  was  fifteen  months  old,  and  where 
they  slashed  off  the  curry-kid's  head  with  a 
sword.  It  was  my  good-luck  to  meet  all  sorts  of 
men,  from  sober  traveling  missionaries  and 
deserters  flying  from  British  Regiments,  to 
drunken  loafers  who  threw  whiskey  bottles  at  all 
who  passed;  and  my  still  greater  good-fortune 
just  to  escape  a  maternity  case.  Seeing  that  a 
fair  proportion  of  the  tragedy  of  our  lives  out 
here  acted  itself  in  dak-bungalows,  I  wondered 
that  I  had  met  no  ghosts.  A  ghost  that  would 
voluntarily  hang  about  a  dak-bungalow  would 
be  mad  of  course;  but  so  many  men  have  died 
mad  in  dak-bungalows  that  there  must  be  a  fair 
percentage  of  lunatic  ghosts. 
In  due  time  I  found  my  ghost,  or  ghosts  rather. 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  189 

for  there  were  two  of  them.  Up  till  that  hour  I 
had  sympathized  with  Mr.  Besant's  method  of 
handling  them,  as  shown  in  "  The  Strange  Case 
of  Mr.  Lucraft  and  other  Stories."  I  am  now 
in  the  Opposition. 

We  will  call  the  bungalow  Katmal  dak-bunga- 
low. But  that  was  the  smallest  part  of  the 
horror.  A  man  with  a  sensitive  hide  has  no 
right  to  sleep  in  dak-bungalows.  He  should 
marry.  Katmal  dak-bungalow  was  old  and 
rotten  and  unrepaired.  The  floor  was  of  worn 
brick,  the  walls  were  filthy,  and  the  windows 
were  nearly  black  with  grime.  It  stood  on  a  by- 
path largely  used  by  native  Sub-Deputy  Assist- 
ants of  all  kinds,  from  Finance  to  Forests;  but 
real  Sahibs  were  rare.  The  khansamah,  who 
was  nearly  bent  double  with  old  age,  said  so. 

When  I  arrived,  there  was  a  fitful,  undecided 
rain  on  the  face  of  the  land,  accompanied  by  a 
restless  wind,  and  every  gust  made  a  noise  like 
the  rattling  of  dry  bones  in  the  stiff  toddy-palms 
outside.  The  khansamah  completely  lost  his 
head  on  my  arrival.  He  had  served  a  Sahib  once. 
Did  I  know  that  Sahib  ?  He  gave  me  the  name 
of  a  well-known  man  who  has  been  buried  for 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  showed 
me  an  ancient  daguerreotype  of  that  man  in  his 
prehistoric  youth.  1  had  seen  a  steel  engraving 
of  him  at  the  head  of  a  double  volume  of  Mem- 


190  Indian  Tales 

oirs  a  month  before,  and  I  felt  ancient  beyond 
telling. 

The  day  shut  in  and  the  khansamah  went  to 
get  me  food.  He  did  not  go  through  the  pre- 
tence of  calling  it  "khana" — man's  victuals. 
He  said  "raiiib"  and  that  means,  among  other 
things,  "grub" — dog's  rations.  There  was  no 
insult  in  his  choice  of  the  term.  He  had  for- 
gotten the  other  word,  I  suppose. 

While  he  was  cutting  up  the  dead  bodies  of 
animals,  I  settled  myself  down,  after  exploring 
the  dak-bungalow.  There  were  three  rooms, 
beside  my  own,  which  was  a  corner  kenne!,  each 
giving  into  the  other  through  dingy  white  doors 
fastened  with  long  iron  bars.  The  bungalow 
was  a  very  solid  one,  but  the  partition-walls  of 
the  rooms  were  almost  jerry-built  in  their  fiimsi- 
ness.  Every  step  or  bang  of  a  trunk  echoed 
from  my  room  down  the  other  three,  and  -very 
footfall  came  back  tremulously  from  the  far 
walls.  For  this  reason  1  shut  the  door.  There 
were  no  lamps — only  candles  in  long  glass  shades. 
An  oil  wick  was  set  in  the  bath-room. 

For  bleak,  unadulterated  misery  that  dak- 
bungalow  was  the  worst  of  the  many  that  1  had 
ever  set  foot  in.  There  was  no  fireplace,  and 
the  windows  would  not  open;  so  a  brazier  of 
charcoal  would  have  been  useless.  The  rain  and 
the  wind  splashed  and  gurgled  and  moaned  round 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  191 

the  house,  and  the  toddy-palms  rattled  and 
roared.  Half  a  dozen  jackals  went  through  the 
compound  singing,  and  a  hyena  stood  afar  off 
and  mocked  them.  A  hyena  would  convince  a 
Sadducee  of  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead — the 
worst  sort  of  Dead.  Then  came  the  ratub — a 
curious  meal,  half  native  and  half  English  in 
composition — with  the  old  khansamah  babbling 
behind  my  chair  about  dead  and  gone  English 
people,  and  the  wind-blown  candles  playing 
shadow-bo-peep  with  the  bed  and  the  mosquito- 
curtains.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  dinner  and 
evening  to  make  a  man  think  of  every  single  one 
of  his  past  sins,  and  of  all  the  others  that  he  in- 
tended to  commit  if  he  lived. 

Sleep,  for  several  hundred  reasons,  was  not 
easy.  The  lamp  in  the  bath-room  threw  the 
most  absurd  shadows  into  the  room,  and  the 
wind  was  beginning  to  talk  nonsense. 

Just  when  the  reasons  were  drowsy  with 
blood-sucking  I  heard  the  regular — "  Let-us-take- 
and-heave-him-over  "  grunt  of  doolie-bearers  in 
the  compound.  First  one  doolie  came  in,  then  a 
second,  and  then  a  third.  I  heard  the  doolies 
dumped  on  the  ground,  and  the  shutter  in  front 
of  my  door  shook.  **  That's  some  one  trying  to 
come  in,"  1  said.  But  no  one  spoke,  and  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  it  was  the  gusty  wind.  The 
shutter  of  the  room  next  to  mine  was  attacked, 


192  Inaian  Tales 

flung  back,  and  the  inner  door  opened.  "  That's 
some  Sub-Deputy  Assistant,"  I  said,  "  and  he  has 
brought  his  friends  with  him.  Now  they'll  talk 
and  spit  and  smoke  for  an  hour." 

But  there  were  no  voices  and  no  footsteps. 
No  one  was  putting  his  luggage  into  the  next 
room.  The  door  shut,  and  1  thanked  Providence 
that  I  was  to  be  left  in  peace.  But  I  was  curious 
to  know  where  the  doolies  had  gone.  1  got  out 
of  bed  and  looked  into  the  darkness.  There  was 
never  a  sign  of  a  doolie,  just  as  1  was  getting 
into  bed  again,  I  heard,  in  the  next  room,  the 
sound  that  no  man  in  his  senses  can  possibly  mis- 
take— the  whir  of  a  billiard  ball  down  the  length 
of  the  slates  when  the  striker  is  stringing  for 
break.  No  other  sound  is  like  it.  A  minute 
afterward  there  was  another  whir,  and  I  got  into 
bed.  I  was  not  frightened — indeed  I  was  not. 
I  was  very  curious  to  know  what  had  become  of 
the  doolies.     I  jumped  into  bed  for  that  reason. 

Next  minute  1  heard  the  double  click  of  a  can- 
non and  my  hair  sat  up.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say 
that  hair  stands  up.  The  skin  of  the  head  tight- 
ens and  you  can  feel  a  faint,  prickly  bristling  all 
over  the  scalp.    That  is  the  hair  sitting  up. 

There  was  a  whir  and  a  click,  and  both  sounds 
could  only  have  been  m.ade  by  one  thing — a  bil- 
liard ball.  I  argued  the  matter  rut  at  great 
length  with  myself;  and  the  more  I  argued  the 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  193 

less  probable  it  seemed  that  one  bed,  one  table, 
and  two  chairs — all  the  furniture  of  the  room 
next  to  mine — could  so  exactly  duplicate  the 
sounds  of  a  game  of  billiards.  After  another 
cannon,  a  three-cushion  one  to  judge  by  the  whir, 
I  argued  no  more.  I  had  found  my  ghost  and 
would  have  given  worlds  to  have  escaped  from 
that  dak-bungalow.  I  listened,  and  with  each 
listen  the  game  grew  clearer.  There  was  whir 
on  whir  and  click  on  click.  Sometimes  there 
was  a  double  click  and  a  whir  and  another  click. 
Beyond  any  sort  of  doubt,  people  were  playing 
billiards  in  the  next  room.  And  the  next  room 
was  not  big  enough  to  hold  a  billiard  table! 

Between  the  pauses  of  the  wind  1  heard  the 
game  go  forward — stroke  after  stroke.  I  tried 
to  believe  that  I  could  not  hear  voices;  but  that 
attempt  was  a  failure. 

Do  you  know  what  fear  is  ?  Not  ordinary  fear 
of  insult,  injury  or  death,  but  abject,  quivering 
dread  of  something  that  you  cannot  see — fear 
that  dries  the  inside  of  the  mouth  and  half  of  the 
throat — fear  that  makes  you  sweat  on  the  palms 
of  the  hands,  and  gulp  in  order  to  keep  the 
uvula  at  work?  This  is  a  fine  Fear — a  great 
cowardice,  and  must  be  felt  to  be  appreciated. 
The  very  improbability  of  billiards  in  a  dak- 
bungalow  proved  the  reality  of  the  thing.  No 
man — drunk  or  sober — could  imagine  a  game  a 


194  Indian  Tales 

billiards,  or  invent  the  spitting  crack  of  a  "  screw- 
canncn." 

A  severe  course  of  dak-bungalows  has  this 
disadvantage — it  breeds  infinite  credulity.  If  a 
man  said  to  a  confirmed  dak-bungalow-haunter: 
— "There  is  a  corpse  in  the  next  room,  and 
there's  a  mad  girl  in  the  next  but  one,  and  the 
woman  and  man  on  that  camel  have  just  eloped 
from  a  place  sixty  miles  away,"  the  hearer  would 
not  disbelieve  because  he  would  know  that  noth- 
ing is  too  wild,  grotesque,  or  horrible  to  happen 
in  a  dak-bungalow. 

This  credulity,  unfortunately,  extends  to 
ghosts.  A  rational  person  fresh  from  his  own 
house  would  have  turned  on  his  side  and  slept 
1  did  not.  So  surely  as  I  was  given  up  as  a  bad 
carcass  by  the  scores  of  things  in  the  bed  because 
the  bulk  of  my  blood  was  in  my  heart,  so  surely 
did  I  hear  every  stroke  of  a  long  game  at  bil- 
liards played  in  the  echoing  room  behind  the 
iron-barred  door.  My  dominant  fear  was  that 
the  players  might  want  a  maker.  It  was  an  ab- 
surd fear;  because  creatures  who  could  play  in 
the  dark  would  be  above  such  superfluities.  I 
only  know  that  that  was  my  terror;  and  it  was 
real. 

After  a  long  long  while,  the  game  stopped,  and 
the  door  banged.  1  slept  because  I  was  dead  tired. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  preferred  to  have  kept 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  i95 

awake.  Not  for  everything  in  Asia  would  I  have 
dropped  the  door-bar  and  peered  into  the  dark  of 
the  next  room. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  considered  that  I 
had  done  well  and  wisely,  and  inquired  for  the 
means  of  departure. 

"  By  the  way,  khaiisamaJi,"  I  said,  "  what  were 
those  three  doolies  doing  in  my  compound  in  the 
night?" 

"There  were  no  doolies,"  said  the  khansainah. 

I  went  into  the  next  room  and  the  daylight 
streamed  through  the  open  door.  I  was  im- 
mensely brave.  1  would,  at  that  hour,  have 
played  Black  Pool  with  the  owner  of  the  big 
Black  Pool  down  below. 

"  Has  this  place  always  been  a  dak-bunga- 
low } "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  hhansamah.  "  Ten  or  twenty 
years  ago,  I  have  forgotten  how  long,  it  was  a 
billiard-room." 

"  A  how  much  ?  " 

"A  billiard-room  for  the  Sahibs  who  built  the 
Railway.  I  was  khansamah  then  in  the  big 
house  where  all  the  Railway-Sahibs  lived,  and  I 
used  to  come  across  with  brandy-sAr^^.  These 
three  rooms  were  all  one,  and  they  held  a  big 
table  on  which  the  Sahibs  played  every  evening. 
But  the  Sahibs  are  all  dead  now,  and  the  Raiiway 
cuns,  you  say,  nearly  to  Kabul." 


196  Indian   Tales 

"  Do  you  remember  anything  about  the 
Sahibs  ?  " 

"It  is  long  ago,  but  I  remember  that  one 
Sahib,  a  fat  man  and  always  angry,  was  playing 
here  one  night,  and  he  said  to  me: — •  Mangal 
Khan,  brandy-pa  in  do,'  and  1  filled  the  glass,  and 
he  bent  over  the  table  to  strike,  and  his  head  fell 
lower  and  lower  till  it  hit  the  table,  and  his 
spectacles  came  off,  and  when  we — the  Sahibs 
and  I  myself — ran  to  lift  him  he  was  dead.  I 
helped  to  carry  him  out.  Aha,  he  was  a  strong 
Sahib!  But  he  is  dead  and  I,  old  Mangal  Khan, 
am  still  living,  by  your  favor." 

That  was  more  than  enough!  I  had  my  ghost 
— a  first-hand,  authenticated  article.  I  would 
write  to  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research — I 
would  paralyze  the  Empire  with  the  news!  But 
I  would,  first  of  all,  put  eighty  miles  of  assessed 
crop-land  between  myself  and  that  dak-bunga- 
low before  nightfall.  The  Society  might  send 
their  regular  agent  to  investigate  later  on. 

I  went  into  my  own  room  and  prepared  to 
pack  after  noting  down  the  facts  of  the  case. 
As  1  smoked  I  heard  the  game  begin  again — 
with  a  miss  in  balk  this  time,  for  the  whir  was  a 
short  one. 

The  door  was  open  and  I  could  see  into  the 
room.  Cl/ck — click!  That  was  a  cannon.  1 
entered  the  room  without  fear,   for  there  was 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  197 

sunlight  within  and  a  fresh  breeze  without.  The 
unseen  game  was  going  on  at  a  tremendous  rate. 
And  well  it  might,  when  a  restless  little  rat  was 
running  to  and  fro  inside  the  dingy  ceiling-cloth, 
and  a  piece  of  loose  window-sash  was  making 
fifty  breaks  off  the  window-bolt  as  it  shook  in 
the  breeze! 

Impossible  to  mistake  the  sound  of  billiard 
balls!  Impossible  to  mistake  the  whir  of  a  ball 
over  the  slate!  But  I  was  to  be  excused.  Even 
when  I  shut  my  enlightened  eyes  the  sound  was 
marvelously  like  that  of  a  fast  game. 

Entered  angrily  the  faithful  partner  of  my  sor- 
rows, Kadir  Baksh. 

"This  bungalow  is  very  bad  and  low-caste! 
No  wonder  the  Presence  was  disturbed  and  is 
speckled.  Three  sets  of  doolie-bearers  came  to 
the  bungalow  late  last  night  when  I  was  sleeping 
outside,  and  said  that  it  was  their  custom  to  rest 
in  the  rooms  set  apart  for  the  English  people! 
What  honor  has  the  khansamah  ?  They  tried  to 
enter,  but  I  told  them  to  go.  No  wonder,  if 
these  Oorias  have  been  here,  that  the  Presence  is 
sorely  spotted.  It  is  shame,  and  the  work  of  a 
dirty  man! " 

Kadir  Baksh  did  not  say  that  he  had  taken 
from  each  gang  two  annas  for  rent  in  advance, 
and  then,  beyond  my  earshot,  had  beaten  them 
with  the  big  green  umbrella  whose  use  I  could 


19^  Indian  Tales 

never  before  divine.  But  Kadir  Baksh  has  no 
notions  of  morality. 

There  was  an  interview  with  the  khansamah, 
but  as  he  promptly  lost  his  head,  wrath  gave 
place  to  pity,  and  pity  led  to  a  long  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  he  put  the  fat  En- 
gineer-Sahib's tragic  death  in  three  separate  sta- 
tions— two  of  them  fifty  miles  away.  The  third 
shift  was  to  Calcutta,  and  there  the  Sahib  died 
while  driving  a  dog-cart. 

If  1  had  encouraged  him  the  khansamah 
would  have  wandered  all  through  Bengal  with 
his  corpse. 

I  did  not  go  away  as  soon  as  1  intended.  I 
stayed  for  the  night,  while  the  wind  and  the  rat 
and  the  sash  and  the  window-bolt  played  a  ding- 
dong  "hundred  and  fifty  up."  Then  the  wind 
ran  out  and  the  billiards  stopped,  and  I  felt  that  1 
had  ruined  my  one  genuine,  hall-marked  ghost 
story. 

Had  I  only  stopped  at  the  proper  time,  I  could 
have  made  anything  out  of  it. 

That  was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all! 


THE  BIG  DRUNK  DRAP 

We're  goin'  'ome,  we're  goin'  'oine — 

Our  ship  is  at  the  shore, 
An'  you  mus'  pack  your  'aversack. 

For  we  won't  come  back  no  more. 
Ho,  don't  you  grieve  for  me. 

My  lovely  Mary  Ann, 
For  I'll  marry  you  yet  on  a  fourp'ny  bit, 

As  a  time-expired  ma-a-an  ! 

Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

An  awful  thing  has  happened!  My  friend, 
Private  Mulvaney^  who  went  home  in  the  Serapis, 
time-expired,  not  very  long  ago,  has  come  back 
to  India  as  a  civilian!  It  was  all  Dinah  Shadd's 
fault.  She  could  not  stand  the  poky  little  lodg- 
ings, and  she  missed  her  servant  Abdullah  more 
than  words  could  tell.  The  fact  was  that  the 
Mulvaneys  had  been  out  here  too  long,  and  had 
lost  touch  of  England. 

Mulvaney  knew  a  contractor  on  one  of  the  new 
Central  India  lines,  and  wrote  to  him  for  some 
sort  of  work.  The  contractor  said  that  if  Mul- 
vaney could  pay  the  passage  he  would  give  him 
command  of  a  gang  of  coolies  for  old  sake's 
sake.  The  pay  was  eighty-five  rupees  a  month, 
and  Dinah  Shadd  said  that  if  Terence  did  not  ac- 
199 


200  Indian  Tales 

cept  she  would  make  his  life  a  "basted  purga- 
thory."  Therefore  the  Mulvaneys  came  out  as 
"civilians,"  which  was  a  great  and  terrible  fall; 
though  Mulvaney  tried  to  disguise  it,  by  saying 
that  he  was  "  Ker'nel  on  the  railway  line,  an'  a 
consequinshal  man." 

He  wrote  me  an  invitation,  on  a  tool-indent 
form,  to  visit  him ;  and  I  came  down  to  the  funny 
little  "  construction  "  bungalow  at  the  side  of  the 
line.  Dinah  Shadd  had  planted  peas  about  and 
about,  and  nature  had  spread  all  manner  of  green 
stuff  round  the  place.  There  was  no  change  in 
Mulvaney  except  the  change  of  clothing,  which 
was  deplorable,  but  could  not  be  helped.  He 
was  standing  upon  his  trolly,  haranguing  a  gang- 
man,  and  his  shoulders  were  as  well  drilled,  and 
his  big,  thick  chin  was  as  clean-shaven  as  ever. 

"I'm  a  civilian  now,"  said  Mulvaney.  "Cud 
you  tell  that  I  was  iver  a  martial  man  ?  Don't 
answer,  sorr,  av  you're  strainin'  betune  a  compli- 
mint  an'  a  lie.  There's  no  houldin'  Dinah  Shadd 
now  she's  got  a  house  av  her  own.  Go  inside, 
an'  dhrink  tay  out  av  chiny  in  the  drrrrawin'- 
room,  an'  thin  v/e'll  dhrink  like  Christians  undher 
the  tree  here.  Scutt,  ye  naygur-folk!  There's 
a  Sahib  come  to  call  on  me,  an'  that's  more  than 
he'll  iver  do  for  you  onless  you  run!  Get  out, 
an'  go  on  pilin'  up  the  earth,  quick,  till  sun- 
down." 


The  Big  Drunk  Draf  201 

When  we  three  were  comfortably  settled  under 
the  big  sisham  in  front  of  the  bungalow,  and  the 
first  rush  of  questions  and  answers  about  Privates 
Ortheris  and  Learoyd  and  old  times  and  places 
had  died  away,  Mulvaney  said,  reflectively — 
"Glory  be  there's  no  p'rade  to-morrow,  an'  no 
bun-headed  Corp'ril-bhoy  to  give  you  his  lip. 
An'  yit  I  don't  know  'Tis  harrd  to  be  some- 
thing ye  niver  were  an'  niver  meant  to  be,  an'  all 
the  ould  days  shut  up  along  wid  your  papers. 
Eyah !  I'm  growin'  rusty,  an'  'tis  the  will  av  God 
that  a  man  mustn't  serve  his  Quane  for  time  an' 
all." 

He  helped  himself  to  a  fresh  peg,  and  sighed 
furiously. 

"Let  your  beard  grow,  Mulvaney,"  said  I, 
"and  then  you  won't  be  troubled  with  those 
notions.     You'll  be  a  real  civilian." 

Dinah  Shadd  had  told  me  in  the  drawing-room 
of  her  desire  to  coax  Mulvaney  into  letting  his 
beard  grow.  "  'Twas  so  civilian-like,"  said  poor 
Dinah,  who  hated  her  husband's  hankering  for 
his  old  life. 

"  Dinah  Shadd,  you're  a  dishgrace  to  an  honust, 
clane-scraped  man ! '"  said  Mulvaney,  without  re- 
plying to  me.  "Grow  a  beard  on  your  own 
chin,  darlint,  and  lave  my  razors  alone.  They're 
all  that  stand  betune  me  and  dis-ris-pect-ability. 
Av  i  didn't  shave,  I  wud  be  torminted  wid  an 


202  Indian  Tales 

outrajis  thurrst;  for  there's  nothin'  so  dhryin'  to 
the  throat  as  a  big  billy-goat  beard  waggin'  un- 
dher  the  chin.  Ye  wudn't  have  me  dhrink  al- 
ways, Dinah  Shadd  ?  By  the  same  token,  you're 
kapin'  me  crool  dhry  now.  Let  me  look  at  that 
whiskey." 

The  whiskey  was  lent  and  returned,  but  Dinah 
Shadd,  who  had  been  just  as  eager  as  her  hus- 
band in  asking  after  old  friends,  rent  me  with  — 

"I  take  shame  for  you,  sorr,  coming  down 
here — though  the  Saints  know  you're  as  welkim 
as  the  daylight  whin  you  do  come — an'  upsettin' 
Terence's  head  wid  your  nonsense  about — about 
fwhat's  much  better  forgotten.  He  bein'  a  civil- 
ian now,  an'  you  niver  was  aught  else.  Can  you 
not  let  the  Arrmy  rest?  'Tis  not  good  for 
Terence." 

I  took  refuge  by  Mulvaney,  for  Dinah  Shadd 
has  a  temper  of  her  own. 

"Let  be — let  be,"  said  Mulvaney.  "'Tis  only 
wanst  in  a  way  I  can  talk  about  the  ould  days." 
Then  to  me: — "  Ye  say  Dhrumshticks  is  well,  an' 
his  lady  tu  ?  1  niver  knew  how  1  liked  the  grey 
garron  till  I  was  shut  av  him  an'  Asia." — 
''  Dhrumshticks  "  was  the  nickname  of  the  Colo- 
nel commanding  Mulvaney's  old  regiment. — 
"Will  you  be  seein'  him  again  .^  You  wilL 
Thin  tell  him " — Mulvaney's  eyes  began  to 
twinkle — "tell  him  wid  Privit"  — 


The  Big  Drunk  Draf  203 

"Mister,  Terence,"  interrupted  Dinah  Shadd. 

"  Now  the  Divil  an'  all  his  angils  an'  the  Firma- 
ment av  Hiven  fly  away  wid  the  '  Mister,'  an'  the 
sin  av  making  me  sv/ear  be  on  your  confession, 
Dinah  Shadd!  Pn'vit,  1  tell  ye.  Wid  Pnvit 
Mulvaney's  best  obedience,  that  but  for  me  the 
last  time-expired  wud  be  still  pullin'  hair  on  their 
way  to  the  sea." 

He  threw  himself  back  in  the  chair,  chuckled, 
and  was  silent. 

"Mrs.  Mulvaney,"  I  said,  "please  take  up  the 
whiskey,  and  don't  let  him  have  it  until  he  has 
told  the  story." 

Dinah  Shadd  dexterously  whipped  the  bottle 
away,  saying  at  the  same  time,  "  'Tis  nothing  to 
be  proud  av,"  and  thus  captured  by  the  enemy, 
Mulvaney  spake:  — 

"  'Twas  on  Chuseday  week.  I  was  behaderin' 
round  wid  the  gangs  on  the  'bankmint — I've 
taught  the  hoppers  how  to  kape  step  an'  stop 
screechin' — whin  a  head-gangman  comes  up  to 
me,  wid  about  two  inches  av  shirt-tail  hanging 
round  his  neck  an'  a  disthressful  light  in  his  oi. 
'Sahib,'  sez  he,  'there's  a  reg'mint  an'  a  half  av 
soldiers  up  at  the  junction,  knockin'  red  cinders 
out  av  ivrything  an'  ivrybody!  They  thried  to 
hang  me  in  my  cloth,'  he  sez,  'an'  there  will  be 
murder  an'  ruin  an'  rape  in  the  place  before  night- 
fall!   They  say  they're    comin'   down   here  to 


204  Indian  Tales 

wake  us  up.  What  will  we  do  wid  our  women- 
folk?' 

"'Fetch  my  throUy!'  sez  I;  'my  heart's  sick 
in  my  ribs  for  a  wink  at  anything  wid  the 
Quane's  uniforna  on  ut.  Fetch  my  throUy,  an' 
six  av  the  jildiest  men,  and  run  me  up  in  shtyle.' " 

"  He  tuk  his  best  coat,"  said  Dinah  Shadd,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  'Twas  to  do  honor  to  the  Widdy.  I  cud  ha' 
done  no  less,  Dinah  Shadd.  You  and  your  di- 
gresshins  interfere  wid  the  coorse  av  the  narra- 
tive. Have  you  iver  considhered  fwhat  I  wud 
look  like  wid  me  head  shaved  as  well  as  my 
chin  }  You  bear  that  in  your  mind,  Dinah  darlin'. 

"I  was  throllied  up  six  miles,  all  to  get  a 
shquint  at  that  draf.  I  knew  'twas  a  spring  draf 
goin'  home,  for  there's  no  rig'mint  hereabouts, 
more's  the  pity." 

"  Praise  the  Virgin!  "  murmured  Dinah  Shadd. 
But  Mulvaney  did  not  hear. 

"Whin  I  was  about  three-quarters  av  a  mile 
off  the  rest-camp,  powtherin'  along  fit  to  burrst, 
I  heard  the  noise  av  the  men  an',  on  my  sowl, 
sorr,  I  cud  catch  the  voice  av  Peg  Barney  bel- 
lowin'  hke  a  bison  wid  the  belly-ache.  You  re- 
mimber  Peg  Barney  that  was  in  D  Comp'ny — a 
red,  hairy  scraun,  wid  a  scar  on  his  jaw  ?  Peg 
Barney  that  cleared  out  the  Blue  Lights'  Jubilee 
meeting  wid  the  cook-room  mop  last  year  ? 


The  Big  Dnink  Draf  205 

"Thin  I  knew  ut  was  a  draf  of  the  ould  rig'- 
rnint,  an"  I  was  conshumed  wid  sorrow  for  the 
bhoy  that  was  in  charge.  We  was  harrd 
scrapin's  at  any  time.  Did  I  iver  tell  you  how 
Horker  Kelley  went  into  clink  nakid  as  Phoebus 
ApoUonius,  wid  the  shirts  av  the  Corp'ril  an'  file 
undher  his  arrum  .^  An'  he  was  a  moild  man! 
But  I'm  digreshin'.  'Tis  a  shame  boih  to  the 
rig'mints  and  the  Arrmy  sendin'  down  little 
orf'cer  bhoys  wid  a  draf  av  strong  men  mad  wid 
liquor  an'  the  chanst  av  gettin'  shut  av  India,  an' 
niver  a  punishment  that's  fit  to  be  given  right 
down  an'  away  from  cantonmints  to  the  dock  ! 
'Tis  this  nonsince.  Whin  I  am  servin'  my  time, 
I'm  undher  the  Articles  av  War,  an'  can  be 
whipped  on  the  peg  for  tltim.  But  whin  I've 
served  my  time,  I'm  a  Reserve  man,  an'  the  Ar- 
ticles av  War  haven't  any  hould  on  me.  An 
orf  cer  can't  do  anythin'  to  a  time-expired  savin' 
confmin'  him  to  barricks.  'Tis  a  wise  rig'lation 
bekaze  a  time-expired  does  not  have  any  bar- 
ricks; bein'  on  the  move  all  the  time.  'Tis  a 
Solomon  av  a  rig'lation,  is  that.  I  wud  like  to  be 
inthroduced  to  the  man  that  made  ut.  'Tis  easier 
to  get  colts  from  a  Kibbereen  horse-fair  into  Gal- 
way  than  to  take  a  bad  draf  over  ten  miles  av 
country.  Consiquintly  that  rig'lation — for  fear 
that  the  men  wud  be  hurt  by  the  little  orf  cer 
bhoy.     No  matther.     The  nearer  my  throlly  came 


2o6  Indian   Tale. 


to  the  rest-camp,  the  woilder  was  the  shine,  an' 
the  louder  was  the  voice  av  Peg  Barney.  '  Tis 
good  I  am  here,'  thinks  1  to  myself,  '  for  Peg 
alone  is  employmint  for  two  or  three.'  He  bein', 
I  well  knew,  as  copped  as  a  dhrover. 

"  Faith,  that  rest-camp  was  a  sight!  The  tent- 
ropes  was  all  skew-nosed,  an'  the  pegs  looked  as 
dhrunk  as  the  men — fifty  av  thim — the  scourin's, 
an~  rinsin's,  an'  Divil's  lavin's  av  the  Ould  Rig'- 
mint.  1  tell  you,  sorr,  they  were  dhrunker  than 
any  men  you've  ever  seen  in  your  mortial  life. 
How  does  a  draf  get  dhrunk  ?  How  does  a  frog 
get  fat }    They  suk  ut  in  through  their  shkins. 

"There  was  Peg  Barney  sittin'  on  the  groun' 
in  his  shirt — wan  shoe  off  an'  wan  shoe  on — 
whackin'  a  tent-peg  over  the  head  wid  his  boot, 
an'  singin'  fit  to  wake  the  dead.  'Twas  no  clane 
song  that  he  sung,  though.  'Twas  the  Divil's 
Mass." 

"What's  that.?"  I  asked. 

"Whin  a  bad  egg  is  shut  av  the  Army,  he 
sings  the  Divil's  Mass  for  a  good  riddance:  an' 
that  manes  swearin'  at  ivrything  from  the  Com- 
mandher-in-Chief  down  to  the  Room-Corp'ril. 
such  as  you  niver  in  your  days  heard.  Some 
men  can  swear  so  as  to  make  green  turf  crack! 
Have  you  iver  heard  the  Curse  in  an  Orange 
Lodge  ?  The  Divil's  Mass  is  ten  times  worse,  an' 
Peg  Barney  was  singin'  ut,  whackin'  the  tent-peg 


The  Big  Drunk  Draf  207 

on  the  head  wid  his  boot  for  each  man  that  he 
cursed.  A  powerful  big  voice  had  Peg  Barne}^ 
an'  a  hard  swearer  he  was  whin  sober.  I  stood 
forninst  him,  an'  'twas  not  me  oi  alone  that  cud 
tell  Peg  was  dhrunk  as  a  coot. 

"'Good  mornin',  Peg,'  I  sez,  whin  he  dhrew 
breath  afther  cursin'  the  Adj'tint  Gen'ral;  'I've 
put  on  my  best  coat  to  see  you,  Peg  Barney,' 
sez  I. 

"'Thin  take  ut  off  again,'  sez  Peg  Barney, 
latherin'  away  wid  the  boot;  'take  ut  off  an' 
dance,  ye  lousy  civilian ! ' 

"Wid  that  he  begins  cursin'  ould  Dhrum- 
shticks,  being  so  full  he  clean  disremim.bers  the 
Brigade-Major  an'  the  Judge  Advokit  Gen'ral. 

"  'Do  you  not  know  me,  Peg.^'  sez  I,  though 
me  blood  was  hot  in  me  wid  being  called  a 
civilian." 

"An'  him  a  decent  married  man!"  wailed 
Dinah  Shadd. 

"'I  do  not,'  sez  Peg,  'but  dhrunk  or  sober 
I'll  tear  the  hide  off  your  back  wid  a  shovel  whin 
I've  stopped  singin'.' 

"'Say  you  so,  Peg  Barney?'  sez  1.  ''Tis 
clear  as  mud  you've  forgotten  me.  I'll  assist 
your  autobiography.'  Wid  that  I  stretched  Peg 
Barney,  boot  an'  all,  an'  wint  into  the  camp.  An 
awful  sight  ut  was! 

"'Where's  the  orfcer  in  charge  av  the  de- 


2o8  Indian  Tales 

tachment  ? '  sez  1  to  Scrub  Greene — the  manest 
little  worm  that  ever  walked. 

"  'There's  no  orf  cer,  ye  ould  cook,'  sez  Scrub; 
'we're  a  bloomin'  Republic' 

"'Are  you  that?'  sez  1;  'thin  I'm  O'Connell 
the  Dictator,  an'  by  this  you  will  larn  to  kape  a 
civil  tongue  in  your  rag-box.' 

"  Wid  that  I  stretched  Scrub  Greene  an'  wint 
to  the  orfcer's  tent.  'Twas  a  new  little  bhoy 
— not  wan  I'd  iver  seen  before.  He  was  sittin' 
in  his  tent,  purtendin'  not  to  'ave  ear  av  the 
racket. 

"I  saluted — but  for  the  life  av  me  I  mint  to 
shake  hands  whin  I  went  in.  'Twas  the  sword 
hangin'  on  the  tent-pole  changed  my  will. 

"'Can't  I  help,  sorr.^'  sez  I;  ''tis  a  strong 
man's  job  they've  given  you,  an'  you'll  be  wantin' 
help  by  sundown.'  He  was  a  bhoy  wid  bowils, 
that  child,  an'  a  rale  gintleman. 

"  '  Sit  down,'  sez  he. 

'"Not  before  my  orf 'cer,'  sez  I;  an'  I  tould 
him  fwhat  my  service  was. 

"'I've  heard  av  you,'  sez  he.  'You  tuk  the 
town  av  Lungtungpen  nakid.' 

"'Faith,'  thinks  1,  'that's  Honor  an'  Glory;' 
for  'twas  Lift'nint  Brazenose  did  that  job.  '  I'm 
wid  ye,  sorr,'  sez  I,  'if  I'm  av  use.  They  shud 
niver  ha'  sent  you  down  wid  the  draf.  Savin' 
your  presince,    sorr,'   I  sez,   'tis  only   Lift'nint 


The  Big  Drunk  Draf  2og 

Hackerston  in  the  Ould  Rig'mint  can  manage  a 
Home  draf.' 

"'I've  niver  had  charge  of  men  like  this  be- 
fore,' sez  he,  playin'  wid  the  pens  on  the  table; 
'an'  I  see  by  the  Rig'lations" — 

"  'Shut  your  oi  to  the  Rig'lations,  sorr,'  I  sez, 
'till  the  throoper's  into  blue  wather.  By  the 
Rig'lations  you've  got  to  tuck  thim  up  for  the 
night,  or  they'll  be  runnin'  foul  av  my  coolies  an' 
makin'  a  shiverarium  half  through  the  country. 
Can  you  trust  your  noncoms,  sorr.^' 

"  'Yes,'  sez  he. 

"  '  Good,'  sez  1 ;  '  there'll  be  throuble  before  the 
night.     Are  you  marchin',  sorr.?' 

"  'To  the  next  station,'  sez  he. 

"  '  Better  still,'  sez  I ;  '  there'll  be  big  throuble.' 

"  'Can't  be  too  hard  on  a  Home  draf','  sez  he; 
'the  great  thing  is  to  get  thim  in-ship.' 

"'Faith  you've  larnt  the  half  av  your  lesson, 
sorr,'  sez  I,  'but  av  you  shtick  to  the  Rig'lations 
you'll  niver  get  thim  in-ship  at  all,  at  all.  Or 
there  w^on't  be  a  rag  av  kit  betune  thim  whin  you 
do.' 

" 'Twas  a  dear  little  orf'cer  bhoy,  an'  by  way 
av  kapin'  his  heart  up,  1  tould  him  fwhat  I  saw 
wanst  in  a  draf  in  Egypt." 

"  What  was  that,  Mulvaney  ?  "  said  I. 

"Sivin  an'  fifty  men  sittin'  on  the  bank  av  a 
canal,  laughin'  at  a  poor  little  squidgereen  av  an 


2IO  Indian  Tales 

orf  cer  that  they'd  made  wade  into  the  slush  an' 
pitch  the  things  out  av  the  boats  for  their  Lord 
High  Mightinesses.  That  made  me  orf'cer  bhoy 
woild  wid  indignation. 

"  '  Soft  an'  aisy,  sorr,'  sez  I;  'you've  niver  had 
your  draf  in  hand  since  you  left  cantonmints. 
Wait  till  the  night,  an'  your  work  will  be  ready 
to  you,  Wid  your  permission,  sorr,  I  will 
investigate  the  camp,  an'  talk  to  my  ould  friends. 
Tis  no  manner  av  use  thryin'  to  shtop  the  divil- 
mint  now.' 

"  Wid  that  1  wint  out  into  the  camp  an'  inthro- 
juced  mysilf  to  ivry  man  sober  enough  to  remim- 
ber  me.  1  was  some  wan  in  the  ould  days,  an' 
the  bhoys  was  glad  to  see  me — all  excipt  Peg 
Barney  wid  a  eye  like  a  tomata  five  days  in  the 
bazar,  an'  a  nose  to  match.  They  come  round 
me  an'  shuk  me,  an'  1  tould  thim  I  was  in  privit 
employ  wid  an  income  av  me  own,  an'  a 
drrrawin'-room  fit  to  bate  the  Quane's;  an'  wid 
me  lies  an'  me  shtories  an'  nonsinse  gin'rally,  I 
kept  'em  quiet  in  wan  way  an'  another,  knockin' 
roun'  the  camp.  'Twas  bad  even  thin  whin  I 
was  the  Angil  av  Peace. 

"I  talked  to  me  ould  non-coms — they  was 
sober — an'  betune  me  an'  thim  we  wore  the  draf 
over  into  their  tents  at  the  proper  time.  The 
little  orf'cer  bhoy  he  comes  round,  decint  an' 
civil-spoken  as  might  be. 


The  Big  Drunk  Draf  211 

"'Rough  quarters,  men,'  sez  he,  'but  you 
can't  look  to  be  as  comfortable  as  in  barricks. 
We  must  make  the  best  av  things.  I've  shut  my 
eyes  to  a  dale  av  dog's  tricks  to-day,  an'  now 
there  must  be  no  more  av  ut.' 

"  '  No  more  we  will.  Come  an'  have  a  dhrink. 
me  son,'  sez  Peg  Barney,  staggerin'  where  he 
stud.     iMe  little  orf'cer  bhoy  kep'  his  timper. 

"'You're  a  sulky  swine,  you  are,' sez  Peg 
Barney,  an'  at  that  the  men  in  the  tent  began  to 
laugh. 

"  I  tould  you  me  orf'cer  bhoy  had  bowils.  He 
cut  Peg  Barney  as  near  as  might  be  on  the  oi  that 
I'd  squshed  whin  we  first  met.  Peg  wint  spin- 
nin'  acrost  the  tent. 

"  '  Peg  him  out,  sorr,'  sez  I,  in  a  whishper. 

"  '  Peg  him  out! '  sez  me  orf'cer  bhoy,  up  loud, 
just  as  if  'twas  battalion-p'rade  an'  he  pickin'  his 
wurrds  from  the  Sargint. 

"The  non-coms  tuk  Peg  Barney — a  howlin' 
handful  he  was — an'  in  three  minuts  he  was 
pegged  out — chin  down,  tight-dhrawn — on  his 
stummick,  a  tent-peg  to  each  arm  an'  leg, 
swearin'  fit  to  turn  a  naygur  white. 

"  I  tuk  a  peg  an'  jammed  ut  into  his  ugly  jaw. 
— '  Bite  on  that.  Peg  Barney,'  1  sez;  'the  night  is 
settin'  frosty,  an'  you'll  be  wantin'  divarsion  be- 
fore the  mornin'.     But  for  the  Rig'lations  you'd 


2 1 2  Indian   Tales 

be  bitin'  on  a  bullet  now  at  the  thriangles,  Peg 
Barney,'  sez  I. 

"All  the  draf  was  out  av  their  tents  watchin' 
Barney  bein'  pegged. 

"  '  'Tis  agin  the  Rig'lations!  He  strook  him! ' 
screeches  out  Scrub  Greene,  who  was  always  a 
lawyer;  an'  some  of  the  men  tuk  up  the  shoutin'. 

"'Peg  out  that  man!'  sez  my  orf'cer  bhoy, 
niver  losin'  his  timper;  an'  the  non-coms  wint  in 
and  pegged  out  Scrub  Greene  by  the  side  av  Peg 
Barney. 

"I  cud  see  that  the  draf  was  comin'  roun'. 
The  men  stud  not  knowin"  fwhat  to  do. 

"'Get  to  your  tents!'  sez  me  orf'cer  bhoy. 
'Sargint,  put  a  sintry  over  these  two  men.' 

"The  men  wint  back  into  the  tents  like  jack- 
als, an'  the  rest  av  the  night  there  was  no  noise 
at  all  excipt  the  stip  av  the  sintry  over  the  two, 
an'  Scrub  Greene  blubberin'  like  a  child.  'Twas 
a  chilly  night,  an'  faith,  ut  sobered  Peg  Barney. 

"Just  before  Revelly,  my  orfcer  bhoy  comes 
out  an'  sez:  'Loose  those  men  an'  send  thim  to 
their  tents! '  Scrub  Greene  wint  away  widout  a 
word,  but  Peg  Barney,  stiff  wid  the  cowld,  stud 
like  a  sheep,  thryin'  to  make  his  orfcer  under- 
sthand  he  was  sorry  for  playin'  the  goat. 

"  There  was  no  tucker  in  the  draf  whin  ut  fell 
in  for  the  march,  an'  divil  a  wurrd  about  '  ille- 
gality '  cud  I  hear. 


The  Big  Drunk  Draf  213 

"  I  wint  to  the  ould  Color  Sargint  and  I  sez: — 
'  Let  me  die  in  glory,'  sez  I.  '  I've  seen  a  man 
this  day!' 

"  'A  man  he  is,'  sez  ould  Mother;  'the  draf's 
as  sick  as  a  herrin'.  They'll  all  go  down  to  the 
sea  like  lambs.  That  bhoy  has  the  bowils  av  a 
cantonmint  av  Gin'rals.' 

"'Amin,'  sez  1,  'an'  good  luck  go  wid  him, 
wheriver  he  be,  by  land  or  by  sea.  Let  me  know 
how  the  draf  gets  clear.' 

•'An'  do  you  know  how  they  did?  That 
bhoy,  so  I  was  tould  by  letter  from  Bombay, 
bullydamned  'em  down  to  the  dock,  till  they 
cudn't  call  their  sowls  their  own.  From  the  time 
they  left  me  oi  till  they  was  'tween  decks,  not 
wan  av  thim  was  more  than  dacintly  dhrunk. 
An',  by  the  Holy  Articles  av  War,  whin  they 
wint  aboard  they  cheered  him  till  they  cudn't 
spake,  an'  tJiat,  mark  you,  has  not  come  about 
wid  a  draf  in  the  mim'ry  av  livin'  man!  You 
look  to  that  little  orf  cer  bhoy.  He  has  bowils. 
'Tis  not  ivry  child  that  wud  chuck  the  Rig'lations 
to  Flanders  an'  stretch  Peg  Barney  on  a  wink 
from  a  brokin  an'  dilapidated  ould  carkiss  like 
mesilf.     I'd  be  proud  to  serve  " — 

"Terrence,  you're  a  civilian,"  said  Dinah 
Shadd,  warningly. 

"So  I  am — so  I  am.  Is  ut  likely  I  wud  for- 
get ut }    But  he  was  a  gran'  bhoy  all  the  same, 


2 1 4  Indian   Tales 

an'  I'm  only  a  mudtipper  wid  a  hod  on  my  shoul- 
thers.     The  whiskey's  in  the  heel  av  your  hand, 
sorr.     V/id  your  good  lave  we'll  dhrink  to  the 
Ould  Rig'mint— three  fingers — standin'  up  I" 
And  we  drank. 


BY  WORD  OF  MOUTH 

Not  though  you  die  to-night,  O  Sweet,  and  wail, 

A  spectre  at  my  door, 
Shall  mortal  Fear  make  Love  immortal  fail  — 

I  shall  but  love  you  more, 
Who,  from  Death's  house  returning,  give  me  still 
One  moment's  comfort  in  my  matchless  ill. 

— Shadow  Homes. 

THIS  tale  may  be   explained   by  those  who 
know  how  souls  are  made,  and  where  thr 
bounds  of  the  Possible  are  put  down.     I  hav. 
lived  long  enough  in  this  India  to  know  that  it  is 
best  to  know  nothing,  and  can  only  write  th 
story  as  it  happened. 

Dumoise  was  our  Civil  Surgeon  at  Meridki, 
and  we  called  him  "Dormouse,"  because  he  was 
a  round  little,  sleepy  little  man.  He  was  a  good 
Doctor  and  never  quarreled  with  any  one,  not 
even  with  our  Deputy  Commissioner  who  had 
the  manners  of  a  bargee  and  the  tact  of  a  horse. 
He  married  a  girl  as  round  and  as  sleepy-looking 
as  himself.  She  was  a  Miss  Hillardyce,  daughter 
of  "  Squash"  Hillardyce  of  the  Berars,  who  mar- 
ried his  Chief's  daughter  by  mistake.  But  that  is 
another  story. 

215 


2i6  Indian  Tales 

A  honeymoon  in  India  is  seldom  more  than  a 
week  long;  but  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  a 
couple  from  extending  it  over  two  or  three 
years.  India  is  a  delightful  country  foi  married 
folk  who  are  wrapped  up  in  one  another.  They 
can  live  absolutely  alone  and  without  interrup- 
tion— ^just  as  the  Dormice  did.  Those  two  little 
people  retired  from  the  world  after  their  mar- 
riage, and  were  very  ha,,  py.  They  were  forced, 
of  course,  to  give  occasional  dinners,  but  they 
made  no  friends  thereby,  and  the  Station  went 
its  own  way  and  forgot  them;  only  saying,  oc- 
casionally, that  Dormouse  was  the  best  of  good 
fellows  though  dull.  A  Civil  Surgeon  who  never 
quarrels  is  a  rarity,  appreciated  as  such. 

Few  people  can  afford  to  play  Robinson  Cru- 
soe anywhere — least  of  all  in  India,  where  we 
are  few  in  the  land  and  very  much  dependent  on 
each  other's  kind  offices.  Dumoise  was  wrong 
in  shutting  himself  from  the  world  for  a  year, 
and  he  discovered  his  mistake  when  an  epidemic 
of  typhoid  broke  out  in  the  Station  in  the  heart 
of  the  cold  weather,  and  his  wife  went  down. 
He  was  a  shy  little  man,  and  five  days  were 
wasted  before  he  realized  that  Mrs.  Dumoise 
was  burning  with  something  worse  than  simple 
fever,  and  three  days  more  passed  before  he 
ventured  to  call  on  Mrs.  Shute,  the  Engineer's 
wife,    and    timidly    speak    about    his     trouble. 


By  Word  of  Mouth  217 

Nearly  every  household  in  India  knows  that  Doc- 
tors are  very  helpless  in  typhoid.  The  battle 
must  be  fought  out  between  Death  and  the 
Nurses  minute  by  minute  and  degree  by  degree. 
Mrs.  Shute  almost  boxed  Dumoise's  ears  for 
what  she  called  his  "  criminal  delay,'"  and  went  off 
at  once  to  look  after  the  poor  girl.  We  had  seven 
cases  of  typhoid  in  the  Station  that  winter  and, 
as  the  average  of  death  is  about  one  in  every  five 
cases,  we  felt  certain  that  we  should  have  to  lose 
somebody.  But  all  did  their  best.  The  women 
sat  up  nursing  the  women,  and  the  men  turned 
to  and  tended  the  bachelors  who  were  down, 
and  we  wrestled  with  those  typhoid  cases  for 
fifty-six  days,  and  brought  them  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  in  triumph.  But,  just 
when  we  thought  all  was  over,  and  were  going 
to  give  a  dance  to  celebrate  the  victory,  little  Mrs. 
Dumoise  got  a  relapse  and  died  in  a  week  and 
the  Station  went  to  the  funeral.  Dumoise  broke 
down  utterly  at  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  had 
to  be  taken  away. 

After  the  death,  Dumoise  crept  into  his  own 
house  and  refused  to  be  comforted.  He  did  his 
duties  perfectly,  but  we  all  felt  that  he  should  go 
on  leave,  and  the  other  men  of  his  own  Service 
told  him  so.  Dumoise  was  very  thankful  for 
the  suggestion — he  was  thankful  for  anything  in 
those   days — and  went  to  Chini  on  a  walking- 


2i8  Indian  Tales 

tour.  Chini  is  some  twenty  marches  from  Simla, 
in  the  heart  of  the  Hills,  and  the  scenery  is  good 
if  you  are  in  trouble.  You  pass  through  big,  still 
deodar-forests,  and  under  big,  still  cliffs,  and 
over  big,  still  grass-downs  swelling  like  a  wom- 
an's breasts;  and  the  wind  across  the  grass,  and 
the  rain  among  the  deodars  says — "  Hush — hush 
— hush."  So  little  Dumoise  was  packed  off  to 
Chini,  to  wear  down  his  grief  with  a  full-plate 
camera  and  a  rifle.  He  took  also  a  useless 
bearer,  because  the  man  had  been  his  wife's  fa- 
vorite servant.  He  was  idle  and  a  thief,  but  Du- 
moise trusted  everything  to  him. 

On  his  way  back  from  Chini,  Dumoise  turned 
aside  to  Bagi,  through  the  Forest  Reserve  which 
is  on  the  spur  of  Mount  Huttoo.  Some  men 
who  have  traveled  more  than  a  little  say  that  the 
march  from  Kotegarh  to  Bagi  is  one  of  the  finest 
in  creation.  It  runs  through  dark  wet  forest,  and 
ends  suddenly  in  bleak,  nipped  hillside  and 
black  rocks.  Bagi  dak-bungalow  is  open  to  all 
the  winds  and  is  bitterly  cold.  Few  people  go 
to  Bagi.  Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  Du- 
moise went  there.  He  halted  at  seven  in  the 
evening,  and  his  bearer  went  down  the  hillside 
to  the  village  to  engage  coolies  for  the  next  day's 
march.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the  night-winds 
were  beginning  to  croon  among  the  rocks.  Du- 
moise leaned  on  the  railing  of  the  veranda,  wait- 


By  Word  of  Mouth  219 

ing  for  his  bearer  to  return.  The  man  came  back 
almost  immediately  after  he  had  disappeared,  and 
at  such  a  rate  that  Dumoise  fancied  he  must  have 
crossed  a  bear.  He  was  running  as  hard  as  he 
could  up  the  face  of  the  hill. 

But  there  was  no  bear  to  account  for  his  terror. 
He  raced  to  the  veranda  and  fell  down,  the  blood 
spurting  from  his  nose  and  his  face  iron-grey. 
Then  he  gurgled — "!  have  seen  the  Me msahib  / 
I  have  seen  the  Memsahib  !  " 

"Where.?"  said  Dumoise. 

"Down  there,  walking  on  the  road  to  the  vil- 
lage. She  was  in  a  blue  dress,  and  she  lifted  the 
veil  of  her  bonnet  and  said — '  Ram  Dass,  give  my 
salaams  to  the  Sahib,  and  tell  him  that  1  shall 
meet  him  next  month  at  Nuddea.'  Then  1  ran 
away,  because  I  was  afraid." 

What  Dumoise  said  or  did  I  do  not  know. 
Ram  Dass  declares  that  he  said  nothing,  but 
walked  up  and  down  the  veranda  all  the  cold 
night,  waiting  for  the  Memsaliib  to  come  up  the 
hill  and  stretching  out  his  arms  into  the  dark  like 
a  madman.  But  no  Memsahib  came,  and,  next 
day,  he  went  on  to  Simla  cross-questioning  the 
bearer  every  hour. 

Ram  Dass  could  only  say  that  he  had  met  Mrs. 
Dumoise  and  that  she  had  lifted  up  her  veil  and 
given  him  the  message  which  he  had  faithfully 
repeated  to  Dumoise,     To  this  statement  Ram 


220  Indian  Tales 

Dass  adhered.  He  did  not  know  where  Nuddea 
was,  had  no  friends  at  Nuddea,  and  would  most 
certainly  never  go  to  Nuddea;  even  though  his 
pay  were  doubled. 

Nuddea  is  in  Bengal  and  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  a  Doctor  serving  in  the  Punjab.  It 
must  be  more  than  twelve  hundred  miles  south 
of  Meridki. 

Dumoise  went  through  Simla  without  halting, 
and  returned  to  Meridki,  there  to  take  over  charge 
from  the  man  who  had  been  officiating  for  him 
during  his  tour.  There  were  some  Dispensary 
accounts  to  be  explained,  and  some  recent  orders 
of  the  Surgeon-General  to  be  noted,  and,  alto- 
gether, the  taking-over  was  a  full  day's  work. 
In  the  evening,  Dumoise  told  his  locum  tenens, 
who  was  an  old  friend  of  his  bachelor  days,  what 
had  happened  at  Bagi;  and  the  man  said  that 
Ram  Dass  might  as  well  have  chosen  Tuticorin 
while  he  was  about  it. 

At  that  moment,  a  telegraph-peon  came  in 
with  a  telegram  from  Simla,  ordering  Dumoise 
not  to  take  over  charge  at  Meridki,  but  to  go  at 
once  to  Nuddea  on  special  duty.  There  was  a 
nasty  outbreak  of  cholera  at  Nuddea,  and  the 
Bengal  Government,  being  short-handed,  as 
usual,  had  borrowed  a  Surgeon  from  the  Punjab. 

Dumoise  threw  the  telegram  across  the  table 
and  said— "Well?" 


By  IVord  of  Month  221 

The  other  Doctor  said  nothing.  It  was  all  that 
he  could  say. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Dumoise  had  passed 
through  Simla  on  his  way  from  Bagi;  and  thus 
might,  possibly,  have  heard  first  news  of  the  im- 
pending transfer. 

He  tried  to  put  the  question,  and  the  implied 
suspicion  into  words,  but  Dumoise  stopped  him 
with — "  If  I  had  desired  that,  I  should  never  have 
come  back  from  Chini.  1  was  shooting  there. 
I  wish  to  live,  for  1  have  things  to  do  .  .  . 
but  I  shall  not  be  sorry." 

The  other  man  bowed  his  head,  and  helped, 
in  the  twilight,  to  pack  up  Dumoise's  just  opened 
trunks.     Ram  Dass  entered  with  the  lamps. 

"  Where  is  the  Saliib  going  ?  "  he  asked. 

"To  Nuddea,"  said  Dumoise,  softly. 

Ram  Dass  clawed  Dumoise's  knees  and  boots 
and  begged  him  not  to  go.  Ram  Dass  wept  and 
howled  till  he  was  turned  out  of  the  room.  Then 
he  wrapped  up  all  his  belongings  and  came  back 
to  ask  for  a  character.  He  was  not  going  to 
Nuddea  to  see  his  Sahib  die  and,  perhaps,  to  die 
himself. 

So  Dumoise  gave  the  man  his  wages  and 
went  down  to  Nuddea  alone;  the  other  Doctor 
bidding  him  good-bye  as  one  under  sentence  of 
death. 

Eleven  days  later  he  had  joined  his  Mem  sahib  ; 


222  Indian  Tales 

and  the  Bengal  Government  had  to  borrow  a 
fresh  Doctor  to  cope  with  that  epidemic  at 
Nuddea.  The  ^irst  importation  lay  dead  in 
Chooadanga  Dak  Bungalow. 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND 
AFT 

"  And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

IN  the  Army  List  they  still  stand  as  *'  The  Fore 
and  Fit  Princess  Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen- 
Auspach's  Merther-Tydfilshire  Own  Royal  Loyal 
Light  Infantry,  Regimental  District  329A,"  but 
the  Army  through  all  its  barracks  and  canteens 
knows  them  now  as  the  "  Fore  and  Aft."  They 
may  in  time  do  something  that  shall  make  their 
new  title  honorable,  but  at  present  they  are  bit- 
terly ashamed,  and  the  man  who  calls  them 
"  Fore  and  Aft"  does  so  at  the  risk  of  the  head 
which  is  on  his  shoulders. 

Two  words  breathed  into  the  stables  of  a  cer- 
tain Cavalry  Regiment  will  bring  the  men  out 
into  the  streets  with  belts  and  mops  and  bad  lan- 
guage; but  a  whisper  of  "Fore  and  Aft"  will 
bring  out  this  regiment  with  rifles. 

Their  one  excuse  is  that  they  came  again  and 
did  their  best  to  finish  the  job  in  style.  But  for 
a  time  all  their  world  knows  that  they  were 
openly  beaten,  whipped,  dumb-cowed,  shaking 
and  afraid.  The  men  know  it;  their  officers 
know  it;  the  Horse  Guards  know  it,  and  when 
22^ 


224  Indian   Tales 

the  next  war  comes  the  enemy  vv^ill  know  it  also. 
There  are  two  or  three  regiments  of  the  Line  that 
have  a  black  mark  against  their  names  which 
they  will  then  wipe  out,  and  it  will  be  excess- 
ively inconvenient  for  the  troops  upon  whom 
they  do  their  wiping. 

The  courage  of  the  British  soldier  is  officially 
supposed  to  be  above  proof,  and,  as  a  general 
rule,  it  is  so.  The  exceptions  are  decently 
shoveled  out  of  sight,  only  to  be  referred  to  in 
the  freshet  of  unguarded  talk  that  occasionally 
swamps  a  Mess-table  at  midnight.  Then  one 
hears  strange  and  horrible  stories  of  men  not  fol- 
lowing their  officers,  of  orders  being  given  by 
those  who  had  no  right  to  give  them,  and  of  dis- 
grace that,  but  for  the  standing  luck  of  the  Brit- 
ish .Army,  might  have  ended  in  brilliant  disaster. 
These  are  unpleasant  stories  to  listen  Xd,  and  the 
Messes  tell  them  under  their  breath,  sitting  by  the 
big  wood  (ires,  and  the  young  officer  bows  his 
head  and  thinks  to  himself,  please  God,  his  men 
shall  never  behave  unhandily. 

The  British  soldier  is  not  altogether  to  be 
blamed  for  occasional  lapses;  but  this  verdict  he 
should  not  know,  h  moderately  intelligent 
General  will  waste  six  months  in  mastering  the 
craft  of  the  particular  war  that  he  may  be 
waging;  a  Colonel  may  utterly  misunderstand 
the  capacity  of  his  regiment  for  three  months 


The  Drmns  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  225 

after  it  has  taken  the  field;  and  even  a  Company 
Commander  may  err  and  be  deceived  as  to  the 
temper  and  temperament  of  his  own  handful: 
wherefore  the  soldier,  and  the  soldier  of  to-day 
more  particularly,  should  not  be  blamed  for  fall- 
ing back.  He  should  be  shot  or  hanged  after- 
ward— pour  encourager  les  autres;  but  he  should 
not  be  vilified  in  newspapers,  for  that  is  want  of 
tact  and  waste  of  space. 

He  has,  let  us  say,  been  in  the  service  of  the 
Empress  for,  perhaps,  four  years.  He  will  leave 
in  another  two  years.  He  has  no  inherited  mor- 
als, and  four  years  are  not  sufficient  to  drive 
toughness  into  his  fibre,  or  to  teach  him  how 
holy  a  thing  is  his  Regiment.  He  wants  to  drink, 
he  wants  to  enjoy  himself — in  India  he  wants  to 
save  money — and  he  does  not  in  the  least  like 
getting  hurt.  He  has  received  just  sufficient  ed- 
ucation to  make  him  understand  half  the  purport 
of  the  orders  he  receives,  and  to  speculate  on  the 
nature  of  clean,  incised,  and  shattering  wounds. 
Thus,  if  he  is  told  to  deploy  under  fire  prepara- 
tory to  an  attack,  he  knows  that  he  runs  a  very 
great  risk  of  being  killed  while  he  is  deploying, 
and  suspects  that  he  is  being  thrown  away  to 
gain  ten  minutes'  time.  He  may  either  deploy 
with  desperate  swiftness,  or  he  may  shuffle,  or 
bunch,  or  break,  according  to  the  discipline  un- 
der which  he  has  lain  for  four  years. 


226  Indian  Tales 

Armed  with  imperfect  knowledge,  cursed  with 
the  rudiments  of  an  imagination,  hampered  by 
the  intense  selfishness  of  the  lower  classes,  and 
unsupported  by  any  regimental  associations,  this 
young  man  is  suddenly  introduced  to  an  enemy 
who  in  eastern  lands  is  always  ugly,  generally 
tall  and  hairy,  and  frequently  noisy.  If  he  looks 
to  the  right  and  the  left  and  sees  old  soldiers — 
men  of  twelve  years'  service,  who,  he  knows, 
know  what  they  are  about — taking  a  charge, 
rush,  or  demonstration  without  embarrassment, 
he  is  consoled  and  applies  his  shoulder  to  the 
butt  of  his  rifle  with  a  stout  heart.  His  peace  is 
the  greater  if  he  hears  a  senior,  who  has  taught 
him  his  soldiering  and  broken  his  head  on  occa- 
sion, whispering: — "They'll  shout  and  carry  on 
like  this  for  five  minutes.  Then  they'll  rush  in, 
and  then  we've  got  'em  by  the  short  hairs! " 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  sees  only  men  of 
his  own  term  of  service,  turning  white  and  play- 
ing with  their  triggers  and  saying: — "  What  the 
Hell's  up  now?"  while  the  Company  Com.man- 
ders  are  sweating  into  their  sword-hilts  and 
shouting: — "Front-rank,  fix  bayonets.  Steady 
there — steady!  Sight  for  three  hundred — no,  for 
five!  Lie  down,  all!  Steady!  Front-rank,  kneel!  " 
and  so  forth,  he  becomes  unhappy;  and  grows 
acutely  miserable  when  he  hears  a  comrade  turn 
over  with  the  rattle  of  fire-irons  falling  into  the 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  227 

fender,  and  the  grunt  of  a  pole-axed  ox.  If  he 
can  be  moved  about  a  httle  and  allowed  to  watch 
the  effect  of  his  own  fire  on  the  enemy  he  feels 
merrier,  and  may  be  then  worked  up  to  the  blind 
passion  of  fighting,  which  is,  contrary  to  general 
belief,  controlled  by  a  chilly  Devil  and  shakes 
men  like  ague.  If  he  is  not  moved  about,  and 
begins  to  feel  cold  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  and 
in  that  crisis  is  badly  mauled  and  hears  orders 
that  were  never  given,  he  will  break,  and  he  will 
break  badly;  and  of  all  things  under  the  sight  of 
the  Sun  there  is  nothing  more  terrible  than  a 
broken  British  regiment.  When  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst  and  the  panic  is  really  epidemic,  the 
men  must  be  e'en  let  go,  and  the  Company  Com- 
manders had  better  escape  to  the  enemy  and  stay 
there  for  safety's  sake.  If  they  can  be  made  to 
come  again  they  are  not  pleasant  men  to  meet, 
because  they  will  not  break  twice. 

About  thirty  years  from  this  date,  when  we 
have  succeeded  in  half-educating  everything  that 
wears  trousers,  our  Army  will  be  a  beautifully 
unreliable  machine.  It  will  know  too  much  and 
it  will  do  too  little.  Later  still,  when  all 
men  are  at  the  mental  level  of  the  officer  of 
to-day  it  will  sweep  the  earth.  Speaking  roughly, 
you  must  employ  either  blackguards  or  gentle- 
men, or,  best  of  all,  blackguards  commanded  by 
gentlemen,  to  do  butcher's  work  with  efficiency 


228  Indian   Tales 

and  despatch.  The  ideal  soldier  should,  of 
course,  think  for  himself — the  Pochetbook  says  so. 
Unfortunately,  to  attain  this  virtue,  he  has  to  pass 
through  the  phase  of  thinking  of  himself,  and 
that  is  misdirected  genius.  A  blackguard  may  be 
slow  to  think  for  himself,  but  he  is  genuinely 
anxious  to  kill,  and  a  little  punishment  teaches 
him  how  to  guard  his  own  skin  and  perforate 
another's.  A  powerfully  prayerful  Highland 
Regiment,  officered  by  rank  Presbyterians,  is, 
perhaps,  one  degree  more  terrible  in  action  than 
a  hard-bitten  thousand  of  irresponsible  Irish  ruf- 
fians led  by  most  improper  young  unbelievers. 
But  these  things  prove  the  rule — which  is  that  the 
midway  men  are  not  to  be  trusted  alone.  They 
have  ideas  about  the  value  of  life  and  an  up- 
bringing that  has  not  taught  them  to  go  on  and 
take  the  chances.  They  are  carefully  unprovided 
with  a  backing  of  comrades  who  have  been  shot 
over,  and  until  that  backing  is  re-introduced,  as  a 
great  many  Regimental  Commanders  intend  it 
shall  be,  they  are  more  liable  to  disgrace  them- 
selves than  the  size  of  the  Empire  or  the  dignity 
of  the  Army  allows.  Their  officers  are  as  good 
as  good  can  be,  because  their  training  begins 
early,  and  God  has  arranged  that  a  clean-run 
youth  of  the  British  middle  classes  shall,  in  the 
matter  of  backbone,  brains,  and  bowels,  surpass 
all  other  youths.      For  this  reason  a  child  of 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  229 

eighteen  will  stand  up,  doing  nothing,  with  a 
tin  sword  in  his  hand  and  joy  in  his  heart  until  he 
is  dropped.  If  he  dies,  he  dies  like  a  gentleman. 
If  he  lives,  he  writes  Home  that  he  has  been 
"potted,"  "sniped,"  "  chipped"  or  "cut  over," 
and  sits  down  to  besiege  Government  for  a 
wound-gratuity  until  the  next  little  war  breaks 
out,  when  he  perjures  himself  before  a  Medical 
Board,  blarneys  his  Colonel,  burns  incense  round 
his  Adjutant,  and  is  allowed  to  go  to  the  Front 
once  more. 

Which  homily  brings  me  directly  to  a  brace  of 
the  most  finished  little  fiends  that  ever  banged 
drum  or  tootled  fife  in  the  Band  of  a  British 
Regiment.  They  ended  their  sinful  career  by 
open  and  flagrant  mutiny  and  were  shot  for  it. 
Their  names  were  Jakin  and  Lew — Piggy  Lew — 
and  they  were  bold,  bad  drummer-boys,  both  of 
them  frequently  birched  by  the  Drum-Major  of 
the  Fore  and  Aft. 

Jakin  was  a  stunted  child  of  fourteen,  and  Lew 
was  about  the  same  age.  When  not  looked  after, 
they  smoked  and  drank.  They  swore  habitually 
after  the  manner  of  the  Barrack-room,  which  is 
cold-swearing  and  comes  from  between  clinched 
teeth;  and  they  fought  religiously  once  a  week. 
Jakin  had  sprung  from  some  London  gutter  and 
may  or  may  not  have  passed  through  Dr.  Bar- 
nado's   hands   ere   he  arrived  at  the  dignity  of 


230  Indian  Tales 

drummer-boy.  Lew  could  remember  nothing 
except  the  regiment  and  the  delight  of  listening 
to  the  Band  from  his  earliest  years.  He  hid 
somewhere  in  his  grimy  little  soul  a  genuine  love 
for  music,  and  was  most  mistakenly  furnished 
with  the  head  of  a  cherub:  insomuch  that  beauti- 
ful ladies  who  watched  the  Regiment  in  church 
were  wont  to  speak  of  him  as  a  "  darling."  They 
never  heard  his  vitriolic  comments  on  their  man- 
ners and  morals,  as  he  walked  back  to  barracks 
with  the  Band  and  matured  fresh  causes  of  offence 
against  Jakin. 

The  other  drummer-boys  hated  both  lads  on 
account  of  their  illogical  conduct.  Jakin  might 
be  pounding  Lew,  or  Lew  might  be  rubbing 
Jakin's  head  in  the  dirt,  but  any  attempt  at  aggres- 
sion on  the  part  of  an  outsider  was  met  by  the 
combined  forces  of  Lew  and  Jakin;  and  the  con- 
sequences were  painful.  The  boys  were  the 
Ishmaels  of  the  corps,  but  wealthy  Ishmaels,  for 
they  sold  battles  in  alternate  weeks  for  the  sport 
of  the  barracks  when  they  were  not  pitted  against 
other  boys;  and  thus  amassed  money. 

On  this  particular  day  there  was  dissension  in 
the  camp.  They  had  just  been  convicted  afresh 
of  smoking,  which  is  bad  for  little  boys  who  use 
plug-tobacco,  and  Lew's  contention  was  that 
Jakin  had  "  stunk  so  'orrid  bad  from  keepin'  the 
pipe  in  pocket,"  that  he  and  he  alone  was  re- 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  231 

sponsible  for  the  birching  they  were  both  tingling 
under. 

"  1  tell  you  I  'id  the  pipe  back  o'  barricks,"  said 
Jakin,  pacifically. 

"You're  a  bloomin'  liar,"  said  Lew,  without 
heat. 

"  You're  a  bloomin'  little  barstard,"  said  Jakin, 
strong  in  the  knowledge  that  his  own  ancestry 
was  unknown. 

Now  there  is  one  word  in  the  extended  vocabu- 
lary of  barrack-room  abuse  that  cannot  pass 
without  comment.  You  may  call  a  man  a  thief 
and  risk  nothing.  You  may  even  call  him  a 
coward  without  finding  more  than  a  boot  whiz 
past  your  ear,  but  you  must  not  call  a  man  a 
bastard  unless  you  are  prepared  to  prove  it  on  his 
front  teeth. 

"  You  might  ha'  kep'  that  till  1  wasn't  so  sore," 
said  Lew,  sorrowfully,  dodging  round  Jakin's 
guard. 

"  I'll  make  you  sorer,"  said  Jakin,  genially,  and 
got  home  on  Lew's  alabaster  forehead.  All 
would  have  gone  well  and  this  story,  as  the 
books  say,  would  never  have  been  written,  had 
not  his  evil  fate  prompted  the  Bazar-Sergeant's 
son,  a  long,  employless  man  of  five  and  twenty, 
to  put  in  an  appearance  after  the  first  round.  He 
was  eternally  in  need  of  money,  and  knew  that 
the  boys  had  silver. 


232  Indian  Tales 

"  Fighting  again,"  said  he.  "  I'll  report  you  to 
my  father,  and  he'll  report  you  to  the  Color-Ser- 
geant." 

**  What's  that  to  you  r  "  said  Jakin,  with  an  un- 
pleasant dilation  of  the  nostrils. 

"  Oh!  nothing  to  me.  You'll  get  into  trouble, 
and  you've  been  up  too  often  to  afford  that." 

"What  the  Hell  do  vou  know  about  what 
we've  done.^"  asked  Lew  the  Seraph.  "  Yoii 
aren't  in  the  Army,  you  lousy,  cadging  civilian." 

He  closed  in  on  the  man's  left  flank. 

"Jes'  'cause  you  find  two  gentlemen  settlin' 
their  diff'rences  with  their  fistes  you  stick  in  your 
jgly  nose  where  you  aren't  wanted.  Run  'ome 
to  your  'arf-caste  slut  of  a  Ma — or  we'll  give  you 
what-for,"  said  Jakin. 

The  man  attempted  reprisals  by  knocking  the 
boys'  heads  together.  The  scheme  would  have 
succeeded  had  not  Jakin  punched  him  vehemently 
in  the  stomach,  or  had  Lew  refrained  from  kick- 
ing his  shins.  They  fought  together,  bleeding 
and  breathless,  for  half  an  hour,  and  after  heavy 
punishment,  trium.phantly  pulled  down  their  op- 
ponent as  terriers  pull  down  a  jackal. 

"Now,"  gasped  Jakin,  "I'll  give  you  what- 
for."  He  proceeded  to  pound  the  man's  features 
while  Lew  stamped  on  the  outlying  portions 
of  his  anatomy.  Chivalry  is  not  a  strong  point 
in  the  composition  of   the  average  drummer- 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  233 

boy.  He  fights,  as  do  his  betters,  to  make  his 
mark. 

Ghastly  was  the  ruin  that  escaped,  and  awful 
was  the  wrath  of  the  Bazar-Sergeant.  Awful  too 
was  the  scene  in  Orderly-room  when  the  two 
reprobates  appeared  to  answer  the  charge  of  half- 
murdering  a  "civilian."  The  Bazar-Sergeant 
thirsted  for  a  criminal  action,  and  his  son  lied. 
The  boys  stood  to  attention  while  the  black  clouds 
of  evidence  accumulated. 

"You  little  devils  are  more  trouble  than  the 
rest  of  the  Regiment  put  together,"  said  the 
Colonel,  angrily.  "  One  might  as  well  admonish 
thistledown,  and  I  can't  well  put  you  in  cells  or 
under  stoppages.     You  must  be  flogged  again." 

"  Beg  y'  pardon,  Sir.  Can't  we  say  nothin'  in 
our  own  defence,  Sir.?"  shrilled  Jakin. 

"  Hey!  What }  Are  you  going  to  argue  with 
me.?"  said  the  Colonel. 

"No,  Sir,"  said  Lew.  "  But  if  a  man  come  to 
you,  Sir,  and  said  he  was  going  to  report  you, 
Sir,  for  'aving  a  bit  of  a  turn-up  with  a  friend, 
Sir,  an'  wanted  to  get  money  out  o' you.  Sir" — 

The  Orderly-room  exploded  in  a  roar  of  laugh- 
ter.    "  Well  ?  "  said  the  Colonel. 

"That  was  what  that  measly /^r;/it'(3r  there  did, 
Sir,  and  'e'd  'a'  done  it,  Sir,  if  we  'adn't  prevented 
'im.  We  didn't  'it  'im  much.  Sir.  'E  'adn't  no 
manner  o'  right  to  interfere  with  us,  Sir.     I  don't 


234  Indian  Tales 

mind  bein'  flogged  by  the  Drum-Major,  Sir,  nor 
yet  reported  by  any  Corp'ral,  but  I'm — but  I  don't 
think  it's  fair,  Sir,  for  a  civilian  to  come  an'  tall^ 
over  a  man  in  the  Army." 

A  second  shout  of  laughter  shook  the  Orderly- 
room,  but  the  Colonel  was  grave. 

"What  sort  of  characters  have  these  boys. f*" 
he  asked  of  the  Regimental  Sergeant-Major. 

"Accordin'  to  the  Bandmaster,  Sir,"  returned 
that  revered  official — the  only  soul  in  the  regi- 
ment whom  the  boys  feared — "they  do  every- 
thing but  lie.  Sir." 

"  Is  it  like  we'd  go  for  that  man  for  fun,  Sir?" 
said  Lew,  pointing  to  the  plaintiff. 

"Oh,  admonished, — admonished!"  said  the 
Colonel,  testily,  and  when  the  boys  had  gone  he 
read  the  Bazar-Sergeant's  son  a  lecture  on  the  sin 
of  unprofitable  meddling,  and  gave  orders  that 
the  Bandmaster  should  keep  the  Drums  in  better 
discipline. 

"  If  either  of  you  come  to  practice  again  with 
so  much  as  a  scratch  on  your  two  ugly  little 
faces,"  thundered  the  Bandmaster,  "I'll  tell  the 
Drum-Major  to  take  the  skin  off  your  backs. 
Understand  that,  you  young  devils." 

Then  he  repented  of  his  speech  for  just  the 
length  of  time  that  Lew,  looking  like  a  Seraph  in 
red  worsted  embellishments,  took  the  place  of 
one  of  the  trumpets — in  hospital — and  rendered 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  235 

the  echo  of  a  battle-piece.  Lew  certainly  was  a 
musician,  and  had  often  in  his  more  exalted  mo- 
ments expressed  a  yearning  to  master  every  in- 
strument of  the  Band. 

"There's  nothing  to  prevent  your  becoming  a 
Bandmaster,  Lew,"  said  the  Bandmaster,  who 
had  composed  waltzes  of  his  own,  and  worked 
day  and  night  in  the  interests  of  the  Band. 

"What  did  he  say.?"  demanded  Jakin,  after 
practice. 

"'Said  I  might  be  a  bloomin'  Bandmaster,  an' 
be  asked  in  to  'ave  a  glass  o'  sherry-wine  on 
Mess-nights." 

"  Ho !  'Said  you  might  be  a  bloomin'  non-com- 
batant, did  'e!  That's  just  about  Vv'ot  'e  would 
say.  When  I've  put  in  my  boy's  service — it's  a 
bloomin'  shame  that  doesn't  count  for  pension— 
I'll  take  on  a  privit.  Then  I'll  be  a  Lance  in  a 
year — knowin'  what  I  know  about  the  ins  an' 
outs  0'  things.  In  three  years  I'll  be  a  bloomin' 
Sergeant.  I  won't  marry  then,  not  I!  I'll  'old  on 
and  learn  the  orf'cers'  ways  an'  apply  for  ex- 
change into  a  reg'  ment  that  doesn't  know  all 
about  me.  Then  I'll  be  a  bloomin'  orf'cer.  Then 
I'll  ask  you  to  'ave  a  glass  0'  sherry-wine.  Mister 
Lew,  an'  you'll  bloomin'  well  'ave  to  stay  in  the 
hanty-room  while  the  Mess-Sergeant  brings  it  to 
your  dirty  'ands." 

" 'S'pose  /'m  going  to  be  a  Bandmaster?    Not 


236  Indian  Tales 

I,  quite.  I'll  be  a  orfcer  too.  There's  nothin' 
like  taking  to  a  thing  an'  stickin'  to  it,  the  School- 
master says.  The  reg'ment  don't  go  'ome  for 
another  seven  years.  I'll  be  a  Lance  then  or 
near  to." 

Thus  the  boys  discussed  their  futures,  and  con- 
ducted themselves  with  exemplary  piety  for  a 
week.  That  is  to  say.  Lew  started  a  flirtation 
with  the  Color-Sergeant's  daughter,  aged  thirteen, 
— "  not,"  as  he  explained  to  Jakin,  "  with  any  in- 
tention o'  matrimony,  but  by  way  0'  keepin'  my 
'and  in."  And  the  black-haired  Cris  Delighan 
enjoyed  that  flirtation  more  than  previous  ones, 
and  the  other  drummer-boys  raged  furiously  to- 
gether, and  Jakin  preached  sermons  on  the  dan- 
gers of  "  bein'  tangled  along  0'  petticoats." 

But  neither  love  nor  virtue  would  have  held 
Lew  long  in  the  paths  of  propriety  had  not  the 
rumor  gone  abroad  that  the  Regiment  was  to  be 
sent  on  active  service,  to  take  part  in  a  war  which, 
for  the  sake  of  brevity,  we  will  call  "The  War 
of  the  Lost  Tribes." 

The  barracks  had  the  rumor  almost  before  the 
Mess-room,  and  of  all  the  nine  hundred  men  in 
barracks  not  ten  had  seen  a  shot  fired  in  anger. 
The  Colonel  had,  twenty  years  ago,  assisted  at  a 
Frontier  expedition;  one  of  the  Majors  had  seen 
service  at  the  Cape;  a  confirmed  deserter  in  E 
Company  had  helped  to  clear  streets  in  Ireland; 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Ajt  237 

but  that  was  all.  The  Regiment  had  been  put 
by  for  many  years.  The  overwhelming  mass  of 
its  rank  and  file  had  from  three  to  four  years' 
service;  the  non-commissioned  officers  were 
under  thirty  years  old;  and  men  and  sergeants 
alike  had  forgotten  to  speak  of  the  stories  written 
in  brief  upon  the  Colors — the  New  Colors  that 
had  been  formally  blessed  by  an  Archbishop  in 
England  ere  the  Regiment  came  away. 

They  wanted  to  go  to  the  Front — they  were 
enthusiastically  anxious  to  go — but  they  had  no 
knowledge  of  what  war  meant,  and  there  was 
none  to  tell  them.  They  were  an  educated  regi- 
ment, the  percentage  of  school-certificates  in  their 
ranks  was  high,  and  most  of  the  men  could  do 
more  than  read  and  write.  They  had  been  re- 
cruited in  loyal  observance  of  the  territorial  idea; 
but  they  themselves  had  no  notion  of  that  idea. 
They  were  made  up  of  drafts  from  an  over- 
populated  manufacturing  district.  The  system 
had  put  flesh  and  muscle  upon  their  small  bones, 
but  it  could  not  put  heart  into  the  sons  of 
those  who  for  generations  had  done  overmuch 
work  for  overscanty  pay,  had  sweated  in  drying- 
rooms,  stooped  over  looms,  coughed  among 
white-lead  and  shivered  on  lime-barges.  The 
men  had  found  food  and  rest  in  the  Army,  and 
now  they  were  going  to  fight  "niggers" — peo- 
ple who  ran  away  if  you  shook  a  stick  at  them. 


238  Indian   Tales 

Wherefore  they  cheered  lustily  when  the  rumor 
ran,  and  the  shrewd,  clerkly  non-commissioned 
officers  speculated  on  the  chances  of  batta  and  of 
saving  their  pay.  At  Headquarters,  men  said: — 
"The  Fore  and  Fit  have  never  been  under  fire 
within  the  last  generation.  Let  us,  therefore, 
break  them  in  easily  by  setting  them  to  guard 
lines  of  communication."  And  this  would  have 
been  done  but  for  the  fact  that  British  Regiments 
were  wanted — badly  wanted — at  the  Front,  and 
there  were  doubtful  Native  Regiments  that  could 
fill  the  minor  duties.  "  Brigade  'em  with  two 
strong  Regiments,"  said  Headquarters.  "They 
may  be  knocked  about  a  bit,  but  they'll  learn  their 
business  before  they  come  through.  Nothing  like 
a  night-alarm  and  a  little  cutting-up  of  stragglers 
to  make  a  Regiment  smart  in  the  field.  Wait  till 
they've  had  half  a  dozen  sentries'  throats  cut." 

The  Colonel  wrote  with  delight  that  the  temper 
of  his  men  was  excellent,  that  the  Regiment  was 
all  that  could  be  wished  and  as  sound  as  a  bell. 
The  Majors  smiled  with  a  sober  joy,  and  the 
subalterns  waltzed  in  pairs  down  the  Mess-room 
after  dinner  and  nearly  shot  themselves  at  revol- 
ver practice.  But  there  was  consternation  in  the 
hearts  of  Jakin  and  Lew.  What  was  to  be  done 
with  the  drums }  Would  the  Band  go  to  the 
Front  ?  Hov/  many  of  the  drums  would  accom- 
pany the  Regiment  ? 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  239 

They  took  council  together,  sitting  in  a  tree 
and  smoking. 

"  It's  more  than  a  bloomin'  toss-up  they'll  leave 
us  be'ind  at  the  Depot  with  the  women.  You'll 
like  that,"  said  Jakin,  sarcastically. 

"  'Cause  0'  Cris,  y'  mean  }  Wot's  a  woman, 
or  a  'ole  bloomin'  depot  0'  women,  'longside  o' 
the  chanst  of  field-service.?  You  know  I'm  as 
keen  on  goin'  as  you,"  said  Lew. 

"'Wish  1  was  a  bloomin'  bugler,"  said  Jakin, 
sadly.  "They'll  take  Tom  Kidd  along,  that  I 
can  plaster  a  wall  with,  an'  like  as  not  they 
won't  take  us." 

"Then  let's  go  an'  make  Tom  Kidd  so 
bloomin'  sick  'e  can't  bugle  no  more.  You  'old 
'is  'ands  an'  I'll  kick  him,"  said  Lew,  wriggling 
on  the  branch. 

"That  ain't  no  good  neither.  We  ain't  the 
sort  0'  characters  to  presoon  on  our  rep'tations — 
they're  bad.  If  they  have  the  Band  at  the  Depot 
we  don't  go,  and  no  error  there.  If  they  take 
the  Band  we  may  get  cast  for  medical  unfitness. 
Are  you  medical  fit,  Piggy  ? "  said  Jakin,  dig- 
ging Lew  in  the  ribs  with  force. 

"  Yus,"  said  Lew,  with  an  oath.  "  The  Doctor 
says  your  'eart's  weak  through  smokin'  on  an 
empty  stummick.  Throw  a  chest  an'  I'll  try 
yer." 

Jakin  threw  out  his  chest,  which  Lew  smote 


240  Indian  Tales, 

with  all  his  might.  Jakin  turned  very  pale, 
gasped,  crowed,  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  said, — 
"That's  all  right." 

"You'll  do,"  said  Lew.  "I've  'eard  o'  men 
dyin'  when  you  'it  'em  fair  on  the  breast-bone." 

"'Don't  bring  us  no  nearer  goin',  though," 
said  Jakin.  "Do  you  know  where  we're  or- 
dered }" 

"Gawd  knows,  an'  'e  won't  split  on  a  pal. 
Somewheres  up  to  the  Front  to  kill  Paythans — 
hairy  big  beggars  that  turn  you  inside  out  if  they 
get  'old  o'  you.  They  say  their  women  are 
good-looking,  too." 

"Any  loot.?"  asked  the  abandoned  Jakin. 

"Not  a  bloomin'  anna,  they  say,  unless  you 
dig  up  the  ground  an'  see  what  the  niggers  'ave 
'id.  They're  a  poor  lot."  Jakin  stood  upright  on 
the  branch  and  gazed  across  the  plain. 

"Lew,"  said  he,  "there's  the  Colonel  coming. 
'Colonel's  a  good  old  beggar.  Let's  go  an'  talk 
to  'im." 

Lew  nearly  fell  out  of  the  tree  at  the  audacity 
of  the  suggestion.  Like  Jakin  he  feared  not  God 
neither  regarded  he  Man,  but  there  are  limits 
even  to  the  audacity  of  drummer-boy,  and  to 
speak  to  a  Colonel  was    .     .     . 

But  Jakin  had  slid  down  the  trunk  and  doubled 
in  the  direction  of  the  Colonel.  That  officer  was 
walking  wrapped  in  thought  and  visions  of  a  C. 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  241 

B. — yes,  even  a  K,  C.  B.,  for  had  he  not  at  com- 
mand one  of  the  best  Regiments  of  the  Line — 
the  Fore  and  Fit  ?  And  he  was  aware  of  two 
small  boys  charging  down  upon  him.  Once  be- 
fore it  had  been  solemnly  reported  to  him  that 
"the  Drums  were  in  a  state  of  mutiny  ";  Jakin 
and  Lew  being  the  ringleaders.  This  looked  like 
an  organized  conspiracy. 

The  boys  halted  at  twenty  yards,  walked  to 
the  regulation  four  paces,  and  saluted  together, 
each  as  well  set-up  as  a  ramrod  and  little  taller. 

The  Colonel  was  in  a  genial  mood;  the  boys 
appeared  very  forlorn  and  unprotected  on  the 
desolate  plain,  and  one  of  them  was  hand- 
some. 

"Well!"  said  the  Colonel,  recognizing  them. 
"Are  you  going  to  pull  me  down  in  the  open  .? 
I'm  sure  I  never  interfere  with  you,  even  though" 
— he  sniffed  suspiciously — "you  have  been  smok- 
ing." 

It  was  time  to  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot. 
Their  hearts  beat  tumultuously. 

"Beg  y'  pardon,  Sir,"  began  Jakin.  "The 
Reg'ment's  ordered  on  active  service.  Sir?" 

"So  I  believe,"  said  the  Colonel,  courteously. 

"Is  the  Band  goin'.  Sir.?"  said  both  together. 
Then,  without  pause,  "We're  goin',  Sir,  ain't 
we?" 

"You!"  said  the  Colonel,  stepping  back  the 


242  Indian  Tales 

more  fully  to  take  in  the  two  small  figures. 
"  You!     You'd  die  in  the  first  march." 

"No,  we  wouldn't,  Sir.  We  can  march  with 
the  Regiment  anywheres — p'rade  an'  anywhere 
else,"  said  Jakin. 

"If  Tom  Kidd  goes  'e'll  shut  up  like  a  clasp- 
knife."  said  Lew.  "  Tom  'as  very  close  veins  in 
both  'is  legs.  Sir." 

"  Very  how  much  ?  " 

"Very  close  veins,  Sir.  That's  why  they 
swells  after  long  p'rade.  Sir.  If  'e  can  go,  we 
can  go.  Sir." 

Again  the  Colonel  looked  at  them  long  and 
intently. 

"Yes,  the  Band  is  going,"  he  said,  as  gravely 
as  though  he  had  been  addressing  a  brother 
officer.  "Have  you  any  parents,  either  of  you 
two  ?" 

"No,  Sir,"  rejoicingly  from  Lew  and  Jakin. 
"  We're  both  orphans.  Sir.  There's  no  one  to 
be  considered  of  on  our  account.  Sir." 

"You  poor  little  sprats,  and  you  want  to  go 
up  to  the  Front  with  the  Regiment,  do  you } 
Why  ?  " 

"I've  wore  the  Queen's  Uniform  for  two 
years,"  said  Jakin.  "It's  very  'ard.  Sir,  that  a 
man  don't  get  no  recompense  for  doin'  'is  dooty, 
Sir." 

"An' — an'  if  I  don't  go.  Sir,"  interrupted  Lew, 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  243 

"the  Bandmaster  'e  says  'e'll  catch  an'  make  a 
bloo — a  blessed  musician  o'  me,  Sir.  Before  I've 
seen  any  service,  Sir." 

The  Colonel  made  no  answer  for  a  long  time- 
Then  he  said  quietly: — "  If  you're  passed  by  the 
Doctor  I  dare  say  you  can  go.  1  shouldn't  smoke 
if  I  were  you." 

The  boys  saluted  and  disappeared.  The  Colo- 
nel walked  home  and  told  the  story  to  his  wife, 
who  nearly  cried  over  it.  The  Colonel  was  well 
pleased.  If  that  was  the  temper  of  the  children, 
what  would  not  the  men  do  } 

Jakin  and  Lew  entered  the  boys'  barrack-room 
with  great  stateliness,  and  refused  to  hold  any 
conversation  with  their  comrades  for  at  least 
ten  minutes.  Then,  bursting  with  pride,  Jakin 
drawled: — "I've  bin  intervooin'  the  Colonel. 
Good  old  beggar  is  the  Colonel.  Says  I  to  'im, 
'Colonel,'  says  I,  Met  me  go  the  Front,  along  o' 
the  Reg'ment.'  'To  the  Front  you  shall  go,' 
says  'e,  *  an'  I  only  wish  there  was  more  like 
you  among  the  dirty  little  devils  that  bang  the 
bloomin'  drums,'  Kidd,  if  you  throw  your 
'coutrements  at  me  for  tellin'  you  the  truth  to 
your  own  advantage,  your  legs  '11  swell." 

None  the  less  there  was  a  Battle-Royal  in  the 
barrack-room,  for  the  boys  were  consumed  with 
envy  and  hate,  and  neither  Jakin  nor  Lew  be- 
haved in  'Conciliatory  wise. 


244  Indian   Tales 

"I'm  goin'  out  to  say  adoo  to  my  girl,"  said 
Lew,  to  cap  the  climax.  "Don't  none  o'  you 
touch  my  kit  because  it's  wanted  for  active  serv- 
ice, me  bein'  specially  invited  to  go  by  the  Colo- 
nel." 

He  strolled  forth  and  whistled  in  the  clump  of 
trees  at  the  back  of  the  Married  Quarters  till  Cris 
came  to  him,  and,  the  preliminary  kisses  being 
given  and  taken.  Lew  began  to  explain  the  situa- 
tion. 

"I'm  goin'  to  the  Front  with  the  Reg'ment," 
he  said,  valiantly. 

"  Piggy,  you're  a  little  liar,"  said  Cris,  but  her 
heart  misgave  her,  for  Lew  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  lying. 

"Liar  yourself,  Cris,"  said  Lew,  slipping  an 
arm  round  her.  "I'm  goin'.  When  the  Reg'- 
ment marches  out  you'll  see  me  with  'em,  all 
galliant  and  gay.  Give  us  another  kiss,  Cris,  on 
the  strength  of  it." 

"If  you'd  on'y  a-stayed  at  the  Depot — where 
you  ought  to  ha'  bin — you  could  get  as  many  of 
'em  as — as  you  dam  please,"  whimpered  Cris, 
putting  up  her  mouth. 

"  It's  'ard,  Cris.  I  grant  you  it's  'ard.  But 
what's  a  man  to  do  ?  If  I'd  a-stayed  at  the  De- 
pot, you  wouldn't  think  anything  of  me." 

"  Like  as  not,  but  I'd  'ave  you  with  me,  Piggy. 
An'  all  the  thinkin'  in  the  world  isn't  like  kissin'." 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  245 

"An'  all  the  kissin'  in  the  world  isn't  like  'avin' 
a  medal  to  wear  on  the  front  0'  your  coat." 

"  Yon  won't  get  no  medal." 

"Oh,  yus,  I  shall  though.  Me  an'  Jakin  are 
the  only  acting-drummers  that'll  be  took  along. 
All  the  rest  is  full  men,  an'  we'll  get  our  medals 
with  them." 

"  They  might  ha'  taken  anybody  but  you, 
Piggy.  You'll  get  killed — you're  so  venture- 
some. Stay  with  me,  Piggy,  darlin',  dov/n  at 
the  Depot,  an'  I'll  love  you  true  forever." 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  do  that //ow,  Cris.?  You 
said  you  was." 

"  O'  course  I  am,  but  th'  other's  more  comfort- 
able. Wait  till  you've  growed  a  bit.  Piggy. 
You  aren't  no  taller  than  me  now." 

"  I've  bin  in  the  army  for  two  years  an'  I'm 
not  goin'  to  get  out  of  a  chanst  o'  seein'  service 
an'  don't  you  try  to  make  me  do  so.  I'll  come 
back,  Cris,  an'  when  I  take  on  as  a  man  I'll  marry 
you — marry  you  when  I'm  a  Lance." 

"  Promise,  Piggy  ?" 

Lew  reflected  on  the  future  as  arranged  by 
Jakin  a  short  time  previously,  but  Cris's  mouth 
was  very  near  to  his  own. 

"  I  promise,  s'elp  me  Gawd !  "  said  he. 

Cris  slid  an  arm  round  his  neck. 

"I  won't  'old  you  back  no  more.  Piggy.  Go 
away  an'  get  your  medal,  an'  I'll  make  you  a 


246  Indian  Tales 

new  button-bag  as  nice  as  I  know  how,"  she 
whispered. 

"Put  some  o'  your  'air  into  it,  Cris,  an' I'll 
keep  it  in  my  pocket  so  long's  I'm  alive." 

Then  Cris  wept  anew,  and  the  interview 
ended.  Public  feeling  among  the  drummer-boys 
rose  to  fever  pitch  and  the  lives  of  Jakin  and  Lew 
became  unenviable.  Not  only  had  they  been 
permitted  to  enlist  two  years  before  the  regulation 
boy's  age — fourteen — but,  by  virtue,  it  seemed, 
of  their  extreme  youth,  they  were  allowed  to  go 
to  the  Front — which  thing  had  not  happened  to 
acting-drummers  within  the  knowledge  of  boy. 
The  Band  which  was  to  accompany  the  Regi- 
ment had  been  cut  down  to  the  regulation  twenty 
men,  the  surplus  returning  to  the  ranks.  Jakin 
and  Lew  were  attached  to  the  Band  as  super- 
numeraries, though  they  would  much  have  pre- 
ferred being  Company  buglers. 

"'Don't  matter  much,"  said  Jakin.  after  the 
medical  inspection.  "Be  thankful  that  we're 
'lowed  to  go  at  all.  The  Doctor  'e  said  that  if 
we  could  stand  what  we  took  from  the  Bazar- 
Sergeant's  son  we'd  stand  pretty  nigh  any- 
thing." 

"  Which  we  will,"  said  Lew,  looking  tenderly 
at  the  ragged  and  ill-made  housewife  that  Cris 
had  given  him,  with  a  lock  of  her  hair  worked 
into  a  sprawling  "  L"  upon  the  cover. 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  247 

"It  was  the  best  I  could,"  she  sobbed.  "! 
wouldn't  let  mother  nor  the  Sergeant's  tailor  'elp 
me.  Keep  it  always,  Piggy,  an'  remember  1  love 
you  true." 

They  marched  to  the  railway  station,  nine 
hundred  and  sixty  strong,  and  every  soul  in  can- 
tonments turned  out  to  see  them  go.  The  drum- 
mers gnashed  their  teeth  at  Jakin  and  Lew  march- 
ing with  the  Band,  the  married  women  wept 
upon  the  platform,  and  the  Regiment  cheered  its 
noble  self  black  in  the  face. 

"A  nice  level  lot,"  said  the  Colonel  to  the 
Second-in-Command,  as  they  watched  the  first 
four  companies  entraining. 

"  Fit  to  do  anything,"  said  the  Second-in-Com- 
mand, enthusiastically.  "But  it  seems  to  me 
they're  a  thought  too  young  and  tender  for  the 
work  in  hand.  It's  bitter  cold  up  at  the  Front 
now." 

"They're  sound  enough,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  We  must  take  our  chance  of  sick  casualties." 

So  they  went  northward, ever  northward,  past 
droves  and  droves  of  camels,  armies  of  camp 
followers,  and  legions  of  laden  mules,  the  throng 
thickening  day  by  day,  till  with  a  shriek  the  train 
pulled  up  at  a  hopelessly  congested  junction 
where  six  lines  of  temporary  track  accommo- 
dated six  forty-wagon  trains;  where  whistles 
blew,  Babus  sweated  and  Commissariat  officers 


248  Indian  Tales 

swore  from  dawn  till  far  into  the  night  amid  the 
wind-driven  chaff  of  the  fodder-bales  and  the 
lowing  of  a  thousand  steers. 

"  Hurry  up — you're  badly  wanted  at  the  Front," 
was  the  message  that  greeted  the  Fore  and  Aft, 
and  the  occupants  of  the  Red  Cross  carriages 
told  the  same  tale. 

"Tisn't  so  much  the  bloomin'  fighting," 
gasped  a  headbound  trooper  of  Hussars  to  a  knot 
of  admiring  Fore  and  Afts.  "Tisn't  so  much 
the  bloomin'  fightin',  though  there's  enough  o' 
that.  It's  the  bloomin'  food  an'  the  bloomin' 
climate.  Frost  all  night  'cept  when  it  hails,  and 
biling  sun  all  day,  and  the  water  stinks  fit  to 
knock  you  down.  1  got  my  'ead  chipped  like  a 
egg\  I've  got  pneumonia  too,  an'  my  guts  is  all 
out  0'  order.  'Tain't  no  bloomin'  picnic  in  those 
parts,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Wot  are  the  niggers  like?"  demanded  a 
private. 

"There's  some  prisoners  in  that  train  yonder. 
Go  an'  look  at  'em.  They're  the  aristocracy  o' 
the  country.  The  common  folk  are  a  dashed 
sight  uglier.  If  you  want  to  know  what  they 
fight  with,  reach  under  my  seat  an'  pull  out  the 
long  knife  that's  there." 

They  dragged  out  and  beheld  for  the  first  time 
the  grim,  bone-handled,  triangular  Afghan  knife. 
It  was  almost  as  long  as  Lew. 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  249 

,  "  That's  the  thing  to  jint  ye,"  said  the  trooper, 
feebly. 

"  It  can  take  off  a  man's  arm  at  the  shoulder  as 
easy  as  slicing  butter.  1  halved  the  beggar  that 
used  that  'un,  but  there's  more  of  his  likes  up 
above.  They  don't  understand  thrustin',  but 
they're  devils  to  slice." 

The  men  strolled  across  the  tracks  to  inspect 
the  Afghan  prisoners.  They  were  unlike  any 
"niggers"  that  the  Fore  and  Aft  had  ever  met — • 
these  huge,  black-haired,  scowling  sons  of  the 
Beni-Israel.  As  the  men  stared  the  Afghans  spat 
freely  and  muttered  one  to  another  with  lowered 
^yes. 

"My  eyes!  Wot  awful  swine!"  said  Jakin, 
who  w'  ''n  the  rear  of  the  procession.  "Say, 
old  man,  how  you  got  piickrowed,  eh  }  Ktswasti 
you  wasn't  hanged  for  your  ugly  face,  hey  ?  " 

The  tallest  of  the  company  turned,  his  leg- 
irons,  clanking  at  the  movement,  and  stared  at 
the  boy.  "See!"  he  cried  to  his  fellows  in 
Pushto.  "They  send  children  against  us.  What 
a  people,  and  what  fools! " 

"  Hya  !  "  said  Jakin,  nodding  his  head  cheerily. 
"  You  go  down-country.  Khana  get,  peenikap- 
anee  get — live  like  a  bloomin'  Raja  ke  marfk. 
That's  a  better  baiidobifst  than  bay  nit  get  it  in  your 
innards.  Good-bye,  ole  man.  Take  care  o' your 
beautiful  figure-'ed,  an'  try  to  look  kiishy-" 


2  50  Indian  Tales 

The  men  laughed  and  fell  in  for  their  fir^t 
march  when  they  began  to  realize  that  a  soldier's 
life  was  not  all  beer  and  skittles.  They  were 
much  impressed  with  the  size  and  bestial  feroc- 
ity of  the  niggers  whom  they  had  now  learned 
to  call  "Paythans,"  and  more  with  the  exceed' 
ing  discomfort  of  their  own  surroundings. 
Twenty  old  soldiers  in  the  corps  would  have 
taught  them  how  to  make  themselves  moderately 
snug  at  night,  but  they  had  no  old  soldiers,  and, 
as  the  troops  on  the  line  of  march  said,  "they 
lived  like  pigs."  They  learned  the  heart-break- 
ing cussedness  of  camp-kitchens  and  camels  and 
the  depravity  of  an  E.  P.  tent  and  a  wither-wrung 
mule.  They  studied  animalculse  in  water,  and 
developed  a  few  cases  of  dysentery  in  their  study. 

At  the  end  of  their  third  march  they  were  dis- 
agreeably surprised  by  the  arrival  in  their  camp 
of  a  hammered  iron  slug  which,  fired  from  a 
steadyrest  at  seven  hundred  yards,  flicked  out 
the  brains  of  a  private  seated  by  the  fire.  This 
robbed  them  of  their  peace  for  a  night,  and  was 
the  beginning  of  a  long-range  fire  carefully  cal- 
culated to  that  end.  In  the  daytime  they  saw 
nothing  except  an  occasional  puff  of  smoke  from 
a  crag  above  the  line  of  march.  At  night  there 
were  distant  spurts  of  flame  and  occasional  casu- 
alties, which  set  the  whole  camp  blazing  into 
the  gloom,  and,  occasionally,  into  opposite  tents. 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  251 

Then  they  swore  vehemently  and  vowed  that 
this  was  magnificent  but  not  war. 

Indeed  it  was  not.  The  Regiment  could  not 
halt  for  reprisals  against  the  franctireurs  of  the 
country  side.  Its  duty  was  to  go  forward  and 
make  connection  with  the  Scotch  and  Gurkha 
troops  v/ith  which  it  was  brigaded.  The  Af- 
ghans knew  this,  and  knew  too,  after  their  first 
tentative  shots,  that  they  were  dealing  with  a 
raw  regiment.  Thereafter  they  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  task  of  keeping  the  Fore  and  Aft  on 
the  strain.  Not  for  anything  would  they  have 
taken  equal  liberties  with  a  seasoned  corps — with 
the  wicked  little  Gurkhas,  whose  delight  it  was 
to  lie  out  in  the  open  on  a  dark  night  and  stalk 
their  stalkers — with  the  terrible,  big  men  dressed 
in  women's  clothes,  who  could  be  heard  praying 
to  their  God  in  the  night-watches,  and  whose 
peace  of  mind  no  amount  of  "sniping"  could 
shake — or  with  those  vile  Sikhs,  who  marched  so 
ostentatiously  unprepared  and  who  dealt  out 
such  grim  reward  to  those  who  tried  to  profit  by 
that  unpreparedness.  This  white  regiment  was 
different — quite  different.  It  slept  like  a  hog, 
and,  like  a  hog,  charged  in  every  direction  when 
it  was  roused.  Its  sentries  walked  with  a  foot- 
fall that  could  be  heard  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile; 
would  fire  at  anything  that  moved — even  a 
driven  donkey — and  when  they  had  once  fired. 


252  Indian  Tales 

could  be  scientifically  "rushed"  and  laid  out  a 
horror  and  an  offence  against  the  morning  sun. 
Then  there  were  camp-followers  who  straggled 
and  could  be  cut  up  without  fear.  Their  shrieks 
would  disturb  the  white  boys,  and  the  loss  of 
their  services  would  inconvenience  them  sorely. 

Thus,  at  every  march,  the  hidden  enemy  be- 
came bolder  and  the  regiment  writhed  and 
twisted  under  attacks  it  could  not  avenge.  The 
crowning  triumph  was  a  sudden  night-rush  end- 
ing in  the  cutting  of  many  tent-ropes,  the  col- 
lapse of  the  sodden  canvas  and  a  glorious  knifing 
of  the  men  who  struggled  and  kicked  below.  It 
was  a  great  deed,  neatly  carried  out,  and  it  shook 
the  already  shaken  nerves  of  the  Fore  and  Aft. 
All  the  courage  that  they  had  been  required  to 
exercise  up  to  this  point  was  the  "two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  courage";  and  they,  so  far,  had 
only  succeeded  in  shooting  their  comrades  and 
losing  their  sleep. 

Sullen,  discontented,  cold,  savage,  sick,  with 
their  uniforms  dulled  and  unclean,  the  "  Fore  and 
Aft  "  joined  their  Brigade. 

"I  hear  you  had  a  tough  time  of  it  coming 
up,"  said  the  Brigadier.  But  when  he  saw  the 
hospital-sheets  his  face  fell. 

"This  is  bad,"  said  he  to  himself.  "They're 
as  rotten  as  sheep."  And  aloud  to  the  Colonel, 
—  '  I'm  afraid  we  can't  spare  you  just  yet.     We 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  253 

want  all  we  have,  else  I  should  have  given  you 
ten  days  to  recruit  in." 

The  Colonel  winced.  "On  my  honor,  Sir," 
he  returned,  "  there  is  not  the  least  necessity  to 
think  of  sparing  us.  My  men  have  been  rather 
mauled  and  upset  without  a  fair  return.  They 
only  want  to  go  in  somewhere  where  they  can 
see  what's  before  them." 

"'Can't  say  I  think  much  of  the  Fore  and  Fit," 
said  the  Brigadier,  in  confidence,  to  his  Brigade- 
Major.  "They've  lost  all  their  soldiering,  and, 
by  the  trim  of  them,  might  have  marched 
through  the  country  from  the  other  side.  A 
more  fagged-out  set  of  men  I  never  put  eyes 
on." 

"Oh,  they'll  improve  as  the  work  goes  on. 
The  parade  gloss  has  been  rubbed  off  a  little,  but 
they'll  put  on  field  polish  before  long,"  said  the 
Brigade-Major.  "They've  been  mauled,  and 
they  quite  don't  understand  it." 

They  did  not.  All  the  hitting  was  on  one  side, 
and  it  was  cruelly  hard  hitting  with  accessories 
that  made  them  sick.  There  was  also  the  real 
sickness  that  laid  hold  of  a  strong  man  and 
dragged  him  howling  to  the  grave.  'Worst  of 
all,  their  officers  knew  just  as  little  of  the  coun- 
try as  the  men  themselves,  and  looked  as  if  they 
did.  The  Fore  and  Aft  were  in  a  thoroughly  un- 
satisfactory condition,  but  they  believed  that  all 


254  Indian   Tales 

would  be  well  if  they  could  once  get  a  fair  go-in 
at  the  enemy.  Pot-shots  up  and  down  the  val- 
leys were  unsatisfactory,  and  the  bayonet  never 
seemed  to  get  a  chance.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well, 
for  a  long-iimbed  Afghan  with  a  knife  had  a 
reach  of  eight  feet,  and  could  carry  away  enough 
lead  to  disable  three  Englishmen.  The  Fore  and 
Fit  would  like  some  rifle-practice  at  the  enemy — 
all  seven  hundred  rifles  blazing  together.  That 
wish  showed  the  mood  of  the  men. 

The  Gurkhas  walked  into  their  camp,  and  in 
broken,  barrack-room  English  strove  to  fraternize 
with  them;  offered  them  pipes  of  tobacco  and 
stood  them  treat  at  the  canteen.  But  the  Fore 
and  Aft,  not  knowing  much  of  the  nature  of  the 
Gurkhas,  treated  them  as  they  would  treat  any 
other  "  niggers,"  and  the  little  men  in  green  trot- 
ted back  to  their  firm  friends  the  Highlanders, 
and  with  many  grins  confided  to  them: — "That 
dam  white  regiment  no  dam  use.  Sulky — ugh! 
Dirty — ugh!  Hya,  any  tot  for  Johnny  ?"  Whereat 
the  Highlanders  smote  the  Gurkhas  as  to  the 
head,  and  told  them  not  to  vilify  a  British  Regi- 
ment, and  the  Gurkhas  grinned  cavernously,  for 
the  Highlanders  were  their  elder  brothers  and  en- 
titled to  the  privileges  of  kinship.  The  common 
soldier  who  touches  a  Gurkha  is  more  than  likely 
to  have  his  head  sliced  open. 

Three  days  later  the  Brigadier  arranged  a  battle 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  255 

according  to  the  rules  of  war  and  the  peculiarity 
of  the  Afghan  temperament.  The  enemy  were 
massing  in  inconvenient  strength  among  the 
hills,  and  the  moving  or  many  green  standards 
warned  him  that  the  tribes  were  *'  up"  in  aid  of 
the  Afghan  regular  troops,  A  Squadron  and  a 
half  of  Bengal  Lancers  represented  the  available 
Cavalry,  and  two  screw-guns  borrowed  from  a 
column  thirty  miles  away,  the  Artillery  at  the 
General's  disposal. 

"If  they  stand,  as  I've  a  very  strong  notion 
that  they  will,  I  fancy  we  shall  see  an  infantry 
fight  that  will  be  worth  watching,"  said  the,  Brig- 
adier. "We'll  do  it  in  style.  Each  regiment 
shall  be  played  into  action  by  its  Band,  and  we'll 
hold  the  Cavalry  in  reserve." 

"  For  all  the  reserve  .?"  somebody  asked. 

"For  all  the  reserve;  because  we're  going  to 
crumple  them  up,"  said  the  Brigadier,  who  was 
an  extraordinary  Brigadier,  and  did  not  believe  in 
the  value  of  a  reserve  when  dealing  with  Asiat- 
ics. And,  indeed,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
had  the  British  Army  consistently  waited  for  re- 
serves in  all  its  little  affairs,  the  boundaries  of  Our 
Empire  would  have  stopped  at  Brighton  beach. 

That  battle  was  to  be  a  glorious  battle. 

The  three  regiments  debouching  from  three 
separate  gorges,  after  duly  crowning  the  heights 
above,  were  to  converge  from  the  centre,  left. 


256  Indian    Tales 

and  right  upon  what  vve  will  call  the  Afghan 
army,  then  stationed  toward  the  lower  extrem- 
ity of  a  flat-bottomed  valley.  Thus  it  v/ill  be 
seen  that  three  sides  of  the  valley  practically 
belonged  to  the  English,  while  the  fourth  was 
strictly  Afghan  property,  in  the  event  of  defeat 
the  Afghans  had  the  rocky  hills  to  fly  to,  where 
the  fire  from  the  guerilla  tribes  in  aid  would 
cover  their  retreat.  In  the  event  of  victory  these 
same  tribes  would  rush  down  and  lend  their 
weight  to  the  rout  of  the  British. 

The  screw-guns  v^ere  to  shell  the  head  of  each 
Afghan  rush  that  was  made  in  close  formation, 
and  the  Cavalry,  held  in  reserve  in  the  right  val- 
ley, were  to  gently  stimulate  the  break-up  which 
would  follow  on  the  combined  attack.  The 
Brigadier,  sitting  upon  a  rock  overlooking  the 
valley,  would  watch  the  battle  unrolled  at  his 
feet.  The  Fore  and  Aft  would  debouch  from 
the  central  gorge,  the  Gurkhas  from  the  left,  and 
the  Highlanders  from  the  right,  for  the  reason 
that  the  left  flank  of  the  enemy  seemed  as  though 
it  required  the  most  hammering.  It  was  not 
every  day  that  an  Afghan  force  would  take 
ground  in  the  open,  and  the  Brigadier  was  re- 
solved to  make  the  most  of  it. 

"  If  we  only  had  a  few  more  men,"  he  said, 
plaintively,  "we  could  surround  the  creatures 
and  crumble  'em  up  thoroughly.     As  it  is,  I'm 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  257 

afraid  we  can  only  cut  them  up  as  they  run. 
It's  a  great  pity." 

The  Fore  and  Aft  had  enjoyed  unbroken  peace 
for  five  days,  and  were  beginning,  in  spite  of 
dysentery,  to  recover  their  nerve.  But  they 
were  not  happy,  for  they  did  not  know  the 
work  in  hand,  and  had  they  known,  would 
not  have  known  how  to  do  it.  Throughout 
those  five  days  in  which  old  soldiers  might  have 
taught  them  the  craft  of  the  game,  they  discussed 
together  their  misadventures  in  the  past — how 
such  an  one  was  alive  at  dawn  and  dead  ere  the 
dusk,  and  with  what  shrieks  and  struggles  such 
another  had  given  up  his  soul  under  the  Afghan 
knife.  Death  was  a  new  and  horrible  thing  to 
the  sons  of  mechanics  who  were  used  to  die  de- 
cently of  zymotic  disease;  and  their  careful  con- 
servation in  barracks  had  done  nothing  to  make 
them  look  upon  it  with  less  dread. 

Very  early  in  the  dawn  the  bugles  began  to 
blow,  and  the  Fore  and  Aft,  filled  with  a  mis- 
guided enthusiasm,  turned  out  without  waiting 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  biscuit;  and  were  re- 
warded by  being  kept  under  arms  in  the  cold 
while  the  other  regiments  leisurely  prepared  for 
the  fray.  All  the  world  knows  that  it  is  ill  tak- 
ing the  breeks  off  a  Highlander.  It  is  much  iller 
to  try  to  make  him  stir  unless  he  is  convinced  of 
the  necessity  for  haste. 


258  Indian  Tales 

The  Fore  and  Aft  awaited,  leaning  upon  their 
rifles  and  listening  to  the  protests  of  their  empty 
stomachs.  The  Colonel  did  his  best  to  remedy 
the  default  of  lining  as  soon  as  it  was  borne  in 
upon  him  that  the  affair  would  not  begin  at  once, 
and  so  well  did  he  succeed  that  the  coffee  was 
just  ready  when — the  men  moved  off,  their  Band 
leading.  Even  then  there  had  been  a  mistake  in 
time,  and  the  Fore  and  Aft  came  out  into  the 
valley  ten  minutes  before  the  proper  hour.  Their 
Band  wheeled  to  the  right  after  reaching  the 
open,  and  retired  behind  a  Uttle  rocky  knoll  still 
playing  while  the  regiment  went  past. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  sight  that  opened  on  the 
uninstructed  view,  for  the  lower  end  of  the  val- 
ley appeared  to  be  filled  by  an  army  in  position 
— real  and  actual  regiments  attired  in  red  coats, 
and — of  this  there  was  no  doubt — firing  Mar- 
tini-Henri bullets  which  cup  up  the  ground  a 
hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  leading  company. 
Over  that  pock-marked  ground  the  regiment  had 
to  pass,  and  it  opened  the  ball  with  a  general  and 
profound  courtesy  to  the  piping  pickets;  ducking 
in  perfect  time,  as  though  it  had  been  brazed  on 
a  rod.  Being  half-capable  of  thinking  for  itself, 
it  fired  a  volley  by  the  simple  process  of  pitching 
its  rifle  into  its  shoulder  and  pulling  the  trigger. 
The  bullets  may  have  accounted  for  some  of  the 
watchers  on  the  hillside,  but  they  certainly  did 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  259 

not  affect  the  mass  of  enemy  in  front,  while  the 
noise  of  the  rifles  drowned  any  orders  that  might 
have  been  given. 

"Good  God!"  said  the  Brigadier,  sitting  on 
the  rock  high  above  all,  "That  regiment  has 
spoiled  the  whole  show.  Hurry  up  the  others, 
and  let  the  screw-guns  get  off." 

But  the  screw-guns,  in  working  round  the 
heights,  had  stumbled  upon  a  wasp's  nest  of  a 
small  mud  fort  which  they  incontinently  shelled 
at  eight  hundred  yards,  to  the  huge  discomfort 
of  the  occupants,  who  were  unaccustomed  to 
weapons  of  such  devilish  precision. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  continued  to  go  forward  but 
with  shortened  stride.  Where  were  the  other 
regiments,  and  why  did  these  niggers  use  Mar- 
tinis .?  They  took  open  order  instinctively,  lying 
down  and  firing  at  random,  rushing  a  few  paces 
forward  and  lying  down  again,  according  to  the 
regulations.  Once  in  this  formation,  each  man 
felt  himself  desperately  alone,  and  edged  in  to- 
ward his  fellow  for  comfort's  sake. 

Then  the  crack  of  his  neighbor's  rifle  at  his  ear 
led  him  to  fire  as  rapidly  as  he  could — again  for 
the  sake  of  the  comfort  of  the  noise.  The  re- 
ward was  not  long  delayed.  Five  volleys  plunged 
the  files  in  banked  smoke  impenetrable  to  the 
eye,  and  the  bullets  began  to  take  ground  twenty 
or  thirty  yards  in  front  of  the  firers,  as  the  weight 


26o  Indian  Tales 

of  the  bayonet  dragged  down,  and  to  the  right 
arms  wearied  with  holding  the  kick  of  the  leap- 
ing Martini.  The  Company  Commanders  peered 
helplessly  through  the  smoke,  the  more  nervous 
mechanically  trying  to  fan  it  away  with  their 
helmets. 

"  High  and  to  the  left!  "  bawled  a  Captain  till 
he  was  hoarse.  "No  good!  Cease  firing,  and 
let  it  drift  away  a  bit." 

Three  and  four  times  the  bugles  shrieked  the 
order,  and  when  it  was  obeyed  the  Fore  and  Aft 
looked  that  their  foe  should  be  lying  before  them 
in  mown  swaths  of  men.  A  light  wind  drove 
the  smoke  to  leeward,  and  showed  the  enemy 
still  in  position  and  apparently  unaffected.  A 
quarter  of  a  ton  of  lead  had  been  buried  a  fur- 
long in  front  of  them,  as  the  ragged  earth  at- 
tested. 

That  was  not  demoralizing.  They  were  wait- 
ing for  the  mad  riot  to  die  down,  and  were  firing 
quietly  into  the  heart  of  the  smoke.  A  private  of 
the  Fore  and  Aft  spun  up  his  company  shrieking 
with  agony,  another  was  kicking  the  earth  and 
gasping,  and  a  third,  ripped  through  the  lower 
intestines  by  a  jagged  bullet,  was  calling  aloud 
on  his  comrades  to  put  him  out  of  his  pain. 
These  were  the  casualties,  and  they  were  not 
soothing  to  hear  or  see.  The  smoke  cleared  to  a 
dull  haze. 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  261 

Then  the  foe  began  to  shout  with  a  great 
shouting  and  a  mass — a  black  mass — detached 
itself  from  the  main  body,  and  rolled  over  the 
ground  at  horrid  speed.  It  was  composed  of, 
perhaps,  three  hundred  men,  who  would  shout 
and  tire  and  slash  if  the  rush  of  their  fifty  com- 
rades who  were  determined  to  die  carried  home. 
The  fifty  were  Ghazis,  half-maddened  with 
drugs  and  wholly  mad  with  religious  fanaticism. 
When  they  rushed  the  British  fire  ceased,  and 
in  the  lull  the  order  was  given  to  close  ranks 
and  meet  them  with  the  bayonet. 

Any  one  who  knew  the  business  could  have 
told  the  Fore  and  Aft  that  the  only  way  of  deal- 
ing with  a  Ghazi  rush  is  by  volleys  at  long 
ranges;  because  a  man  who  means  to  die,  who 
desires  to  die,  who  will  gain  heaven  by  dying, 
must,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  kill  a  man  who 
has  a  lingering  prejudice  in  favor  of  life  if  he  can 
close  with  the  latter.  Where  they  should  have 
closed  and  gone  forward,  the  Fore  and  Aft 
opened  out  and  skirmished,  and  where  they 
should  have  opened  out  and  fired,  they  closed 
and  waited. 

A  man  dragged  from  his  blankets  half  awake 
and  unfed  is  never  in  a  pleasant  fr^me  of  mind. 
Nor  does  his  happiness  increase  when  he  watches 
the  whites  of  the  eyes  of  three  hundred  six-foot 
fiends  upon  whose  beards  the  foam  is  lying,  upon 


262  Indian   Tales 

whose  tongues  is  a  roar  of  wrath,  and  in  whose 
hands  are  three-foot  knives. 

The  Fore  and  Aft  heard  the  Gurkha  bugles 
bringing  that  regiment  forward  at  the  double, 
while  the  neighing  of  the  Highland  pipes  came 
from  the  left.  They  strove  to  stay  where  they 
were,  though  the  bayonets  wavered  down  the 
line  like  the  oars  of  a  ragged  boat.  Then  they 
felt  body  to  body  the  amazing  physical  strength 
of  their  foes;  a  shriek  of  pain  ended  the  rush, 
and  the  knives  fell  amid  scenes  not  to  be  told. 
The  men  clubbed  together  and  smote  blindly — as 
often  as  not  at  their  own  fellows.  Their  from 
crumpled  like  paper,  and  the  fifty  Ghazis  passed 
on;  their  backers,  now  drunk  with  success,  fight- 
ing as  madly  as  they. 

Then  the  rear-ranks  were  bidden  to  close  up, 
and  the  subalterns  dashed  into  the  stew — alone. 
For  the  rear-rank  had  heard  the  clamor  in  front, 
the  yells  and  the  howls  of  pain,  and  had  seen  the 
dark  stale  blood  that  makes  afraid.  They  were 
not  going  to  stay.  It  was  the  rushing  of  the 
camps  over  again.  Let  their  officers  go  to  Hell,  if 
they  chose;  they  would  get  away  from  the 
knives. 

"Come  on!"  shrieked  the  subalterns,  and  their 
men,  cursing  them,  drew  back,  each  closing  into 
his  neighbor  and  wheeling  round. 

Charteris   and   Devlin,   subalterns   of  the   last 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  263 

company,  faced  their  death  alone  in  the  belief 
that  their  men  would  follow. 

"You've  killed  me,  you  cowards,"  sobbed 
Devlin  and  dropped,  cut  from  the  shoulder-strap 
to  the  centre  of  the  chest,  and  a  fresh  detachment 
of  his  men  retreating,  always  retreating,  trampled 
him  under  foot  as  they  made  for  the  pass  whence 
they  had  emerged. 

I  kissed  her  in  the  kitchen  and  I  kissed  her  in  the  hall. 

Child'un,  child'un,  follow  me  ! 
Oh  Golly,  said  the  cook,  is  he  gwine  to  kiss  us  all  ? 

Halla— Halla— Halla  Halleujah  ! 

The  Gurkhas  were  pouring  through  the  left 
gorge  and  over  the  heights  at  the  double  to  the 
invitation  of  their  regimental  Quickstep.  The 
black  rocks  were  crowned  with  dark  green 
spiders  as  the  bugles  gave  tongue  jubilantly: 

In  the  morning  !     In  the  morning  by  the  bright  light ! 
When  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  in  the  morning ! 

The  Gurkha  rear-companies  tripped  and 
blundered  over  loose  stones.  The  front-files 
halted  for  a  moment  to  take  stock  of  the  valley 
and  to  settle  stray  boot-laces.  Then  a  happy  lit- 
tle sigh  of  contentment  soughed  down  the  ranks, 
and  it  was  as  though  the  land  smiled,  for  behold 
there  below  was  the  enemy,  and  it  was  to  meet 
them  that  the  Gurkhas  had  doubled  so  hastily. 


264  Indian  Tales 

There  was  much  enemy.  There  would  be 
amusement.  The  little  men  hitched  their  kukris 
well  to  hand,  and  gaped  expectantly  at  their 
officers  as  terriers  grin  ere  the  stone  is  cast  for 
them  to  fetch.  The  Gurkhas'  ground  sloped 
downward  to  the  valley,  and  they  enjoyed  a  fair 
view  of  the  proceedings.  They  sat  upon  the 
bowlders  to  watch,  for  their  officers  were  not 
going  to  waste  their  wind  in  assisting  to  repulse 
a  Ghazi  rush  more  than  half  a  mile  away.  Let 
the  white  men  look  to  their  own  front. 

"Hi!  yi!"  said  the  Subadar-Major,  who  was 
sweating  profusely.  "Dam  fools  yonder,  stand 
close-order!  This  is  no  time  for  close  order,  it's 
the  time  for  volleys.     Ugh!  " 

Horrified,  amused,  and  indignant,  the  Gurkhas 
beheld  the  retirement — let  us  be  gentle — of  the 
Fore  and  Aft  with  a  running  chorus  of  oaths  and 
commentaries. 

"They  run!  The  white  men  run!  Colonel 
Sahib,  may  we  also  do  a  little  running .?"  mur- 
mured Runbir  Thappa,  the  Senior  Jemadar. 

But  the  Colonel  would  have  none  of  it.  "  Let 
the  beggars  be  cut  up  a  little,"  said  he  wrath- 
fully.  "'Serves  'em  right.  They'll  be  prodded 
into  facing  round  in  a  minute."  He  looked 
through  his  field-glasses,  and  caught  the  glint  of 
an  officer's  sword. 

"Beating    'em    with    the   flat — damned   con- 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  265 

scripts!  How  the  Ghazis  are  walking  into 
them! "  said  he. 

The  Fore  and  Aft,  heading  hack,  bore  with 
them  their  officers.  The  narrowness  of  the  pass 
forced  the  mob  into  solid  formation,  and  the 
rear-rank  delivered  some  sort  of  a  wavering  vol- 
ley. The  Ghazis  drew  off,  for  they  did  not  know 
what  reserves  the  gorge  might  hide.  Moreover, 
it  was  never  wise  to  chase  white  men  too  far. 
They  returned  as  wolves  return  to  cover,  satis- 
fied with  the  slaughter  that  they  had  done,  and 
only  stopping  to  slash  at  the  wounded  on  the 
ground.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  had  the  Fore  and 
Aft  retreated,  and  now,  jammed  in  the  pass,  was 
quivering  with  pain,  shaken  and  demoralized 
with  fear,  while  the  officers,  maddened  beyond 
control,  smote  the  men  with  the  hilts  and  the 
flats  of  their  swords. 

"Get  back!  Get  back,  you  cowards — you 
women!  Right  about  face — column  of  compan- 
ies, form — you  hounds!"  shouted  the  Colonel, 
and  the  subalterns  swore  aloud.  But  the  Regi- 
ment wanted  to  go — to  go  anywhere  out  of  the 
range  of  those  merciless  knives.  It  swayed  to 
and  fro  irresolutely  with  shouts  and  outcries, 
while  from  the  right  the  Gurkhas  dropped  volley 
after  volley  of  cripple-stopper  Snider  bullets  at 
long  range  into  the  mob  of  the  Ghazis  returning 
to  their  own  troops. 


266  Indian  Tales 

The  Fore  and  Aft  Band,  though  protected 
from  direct  fire  by  the  rocky  knoll  under  which 
it  had  sat  down,  fled  at  the  first  rush.  Jakin  and 
Lew  would  have  fled  also,  but  their  short  legs 
left  them  fifty  yards  in  the  rear,  and  by  the  time 
the  Band  had  mixed  with  the  regiment,  they  were 
painfully  aware  that  they  would  have  to  close  in 
alone  and  unsupported. 

"Get  back  to  that  rock,"  gasped  Jakin. 
"They  won't  see  us  there." 

And  they  returned  to  the  scattered  instruments 
of  the  Band ;  their  hearts  nearly  bursting  their  ribs. 

"Here's  a  nice  show  for  «s."  said  Jakin, 
throwing  himself  full  length  on  the  ground. 
"A  bloomin'  fine  show  for  British  Infantry!  Oh, 
the  devils!  They've  gone  an'  left  us  alone  here! 
Wot'll  we  do.?" 

Lew  took  possession  of  a  cast-off  water  bottle, 
which  naturally  was  full  of  canteen  rum,  and 
drank  till  he  coughed  again. 

"Drink,"  said  he,  shortly.  "They'll  come 
back  in  a  minute  or  two — you  see." 

Jakin  drank,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  the  regi- 
ment's return.  They  could  hear  a  dull  clamor 
from  the  head  of  the  valley  of  retreat,  and  saw 
the  Ghazis  slink  back,  quickening  their  pace  as 
the  Gurkhas  fired  at  them. 

"We're  all  that's  left  of  the  Band,  an'  we'll  be 
cut  up  as  sure  as  death,"  said  Jakin. 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  267 

"I'll  die  game,  then,"  said  Lew,  tiiickly,  fum- 
bling with  his  tiny  drummer's  sword.  The 
drink  was  working  on  his  brain  as  it  was  on 
jakin's. 

"'Old  on!  I  know  something  better  than 
fightin',"  said  Jakin,  "stung  by  the  splendor  of  a 
sudden  thought"  due  chiefly  to  rum.  "Tip  our 
bloomin'  cowards  yonder  the  word  to  come  back. 
The  Paythan  beggars  are  well  away.  Come  on, 
Lew!  We  won't  get  hurt.  Take  the  fife  an' 
give  me  the  drum.  The  Old  Step  for  all  your 
bloomin'  guts  are  worth!  There's  a  few  of  our 
men  coming  back  now.  Stand  up,  ye  drunken 
little  defaulter.     By  your  right — quick  march !  " 

He  slipped  the  drum-sling  over  his  shoulder, 
thrust  the  fife  into  Lew's  hand,  and  the  two  boys 
marched  out  of  the  cover  of  the  rock  into  the 
open,  making  a  hideous  hash  of  the  first  bars  of 
the  "British  Grenadiers." 

As  Lew  had  said,  a  few  of  the  Fore  and  Aft 
were  coming  back  sullenly  and  shamefacedly 
under  the  stimulus  of  blows  and  abuse;  their  red 
coats  shone  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  and  behind 
them  were  wavering  bayonets.  But  between 
this  shattered  line  and  the  enemy,  who  with  Af- 
ghan suspicion  feared  that  the  hasty  retreat 
meant  an  ambush,  and  had  not  moved  therefore, 
lay  half  a  mile  of  a  level  ground  dotted  only  by 
the  wounded. 


268  Indian  Tales 

The  tune  settled  into  full  swing  and  the  boys 
kept  shoulder  to  shoulder,  Jakin  banging  the 
drum  as  one  possessed.  The  one  fife  made  a 
thin  and  pitiful  squeaking,  but  the  tune  carried 
far,  even  to  the  Gurkhas. 

"Come  on,  you  dogs!"  muttered  Jakin,  to 
himself.  "Are  we  to  play  forhever.?"  Lew 
was  staring  straight  in  front  of  him  and  march- 
ing more  stiffly  than  ever  he  had  done  on  parade. 

And  in  bitter  mockery  of  the  distant  mob,  the 
old  tune  of  the  Old  Line  shrilled  and  rattled: 

Some  talk  of  Alexander, 

And  some  of  Hercules ; 
Of  Hector  and  Lysander, 

And  such  great  names  as  these ! 

There  was  a  far-off  clapping  of  hands  from 
the  Gurkhas,  and  a  roar  from,  the  Highlanders  in 
the  distance,  but  never  a  shot  was  fired  by  Brit- 
ish or  Afghan.  The  two  little  red  dots  moved 
forward  in  the  open  parallel  to  the  enemy's  front. 

But  of  all  the  world's  great  heroes 
There's  none  that  can  compare, 

With  a  tow-row-row-row-rovv-row, 
To  the  British  Grenadier ! 

The  men  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  were  gathering 
thick  at  the  entrance  into  ihe  plain.  The  Briga- 
dier on  the  heights  far  above  was  speechless  with 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  269 

rage.  Still  no  movement  from  the  enemy.  The 
day  stayed  to  watch  the  children. 

Jakin  halted  and  beat  the  long  roll  of  the  As- 
sembly, while  the  fife  squealed  despairingly. 

"Right  about  face!  Hold  up,  Lew,  you're 
drunk,"  said  Jakin.  They  wheeled  and  marched 
back  : 

Those  heroes  of  antiquity 

Ne'er  saw  a  cannon-ball, 
Nor  knew  the  force  o'  powder, 

"Here  they  come!"  said  Jakin.  "Go  on. 
Lew: " 

To  scare  their  foes  withal ! 

The  Fore  and  Aft  were  pouring  out  of  the  val- 
ley. What  officers  had  said  to  men  in  that  time 
of  shame  and  humiliation  will  never  be  known; 
for  neither  officers  nor  men  speak  of  it  now. 

"They  are  coming  anew! "  shouted  a  priest 
among  the  Afghans.  "Do  not  kill  the  boysl 
Take  them  alive,  and  they  shall  be  of  our  faith." 

But  the  first  volley  had  been  fired,  and  Lew 
dropped  on  his  face.  Jakin  stood  for  a  minute, 
spun  round  and  collapsed,  as  the  Fore  and  Aft 
came  forward,  the  maledictions  of  their  officers 
in  their  ears,  and  in  their  hearts  the  shame  of 
open  shame. 

Half  the  men  had  seen  the  drummers  die,  and 
they  made  no  sign.     They  did  not  even  shout. 


270  Indian   Tales 

They  doubled  out  straight  across  the  plain  in  open 
order,  and  they  did  not  fire. 

"This,"  said  the  Colonel  of  Gurkhas,  softly, 
"is  the  real  attack,  as  it  ought  to  have  been  de- 
livered.    Come  on,  my  children." 

"  Ulu-lu-lu-lu! "  squealed  the  Gurkhas,  and 
came  down  with  a  joyful  clicking  of  kukris — 
those  vicious  Gurkha  knives. 

On  the  right  there  was  no  rush.  The  High- 
landers, cannily  commending  their  souls  to  God 
(for  it  matters  as  much  to  a  dead  man  whether 
he  has  been  shot  in  a  Border  scuffle  or  at  Water- 
loo) opened  out  and  fired  according  to  their  cus- 
tom, that  is  to  say  without  heat  and  without  in- 
tervals, while  the  screw-guns,  having  disposed 
of  the  impertinent  mud  fort  aforementioned, 
dropped  shell  after  shell  into  the  clusters  round 
the  flickering  green  standards  on  the  heights. 

"Charrging  is  an  unfortunate  necessity,"  mur- 
mured the  Color-Sergeant  of  the  right  company 
of  the  Highlanders. 

*•'  It  makes  the  men  sweer  so,  but  I  am  thinkin' 
that  it  will  come  to  a  charrge  if  these  black  devils 
stand  much  longer.  Stewarrt,  man,  you're  firing 
into  the  eye  of  the  sun,  and  he'll  not  take  any 
harm  for  Government  ammuneetion.  A  foot 
lower  and  a  great  deal  slower!  What  are  the 
English  doing.?  They're  very  quiet  there  in  the 
centre.     Running  again  ?  " 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  271 

The  English  were  not  running.  They  were 
hacking  and  hewing  and  stabbing,  for  though  one 
white  rnan  is  seldom  physically  a  match  for  an 
Afghan  in  a  sheepskin  or  wadded  coat,  yet, 
through  the  pressure  of  many  white  men  behind, 
and  a  certain  thirst  for  revenge  in  his  heart,  he 
becomes  capable  of  doing  much  with  both  ends 
of  his  rifle.  The  Fore  and  Aft  held  their  fire  till 
one  bullet  could  drive  through  five  or  six  men, 
and  the  front  of  the  Afghan  force  gave  on  the 
volley.  They  then  selected  their  men,  and  slew 
them  with  deep  gasps  and  short  hacking  coughs, 
and  groanings  of  leather  belts  against  strained 
bodies,  and  realized  for  the  first  time  that  an 
Afghan  attacked  is  far  less  formidable  than  an 
Afghan  attacking;  which  fact  old  soldiers  might 
have  told  them. 

But  they  had  no  old  soldiers  in  their  ranks. 

The  Gurkhas'  stall  at  the  bazar  was  the  noisiest, 
for  the  men  were  engaged — to  a  nasty  noise  as 
of  beef  being  cut  on  the  block — with  the  kukri, 
which  they  preferred  to  the  bayonet  ;  well  know- 
ing how  the  Afghan  hates  the  half-moon  blade. 

As  the  Afghans  wavered,  the  green  standards 
on  the  mountain  moved  down  to  assist  them  in 
a  last  rally.  Which  was  unwise.  The  Lancers 
chafing  in  the  right  gorge  had  thrice  despatched 
their  only  subaltern  as  galloper  to  report  on  the 
progress  of  affairs.     On  the  third  occasion  he  rC' 


2/2  Indian  Tales 

turned,  with  a  bullet-graze  on  his  knee,  swearing 
strange  oaths  in  Hindoostani,  and  saying  that  all 
things  were  ready.  So  that  Squadron  swung 
round  the  right  of  the  Highlanders  with  a  wicked 
whistling  of  wind  in  the  pennons  of  its  lances, 
and  fell  upon  the  remnant  just  when,  according 
to  all  the  rules  of  war,  it  should  have  waited  for 
the  foe  to  show  more  signs  of  wavering. 

But  it  was  a  dainty  charge,  deftly  delivered, 
and  it  ended  by  the  Cavalry  finding  itself  at  the 
head  of  the  pass  by  which  the  Afghans  intended 
to  retreat;  and  down  the  track  that  the  lances  had 
made  streamed  two  companies  of  the  Highland- 
ers, which  was  never  intended  by  the  Brigadier, 
The  new  development  was  successful.  It  de- 
tached the  enemy  from  his  base  as  a  sponge  is 
torn  from  a  rock,  and  left  him  ringed  about  with 
fire  in  that  pitiless  plain.  And  as  a  sponge  is 
chased  round  the  bath-tub  by  the  hand  of  the 
bather,  so  were  the  Afghans  chased  till  they 
broke  into  little  detachments  much  more  difficult 
to  dispose  of  than  large  masses. 

"  See !  "  quoth  the  Brigadier.  "  Everything  has 
come  as  1  arranged.  We've  cut  their  base,  and 
now  we'll  bucket  'em  to  pieces." 

A  direct  hammering  was  all  that  the  Brigadier 
had  dared  to  hope  for,  considering  the  size  of  the 
force  at  his  disposal;  but  men  who  stand  or  fall 
by  the  errors  of  their  opponents  may  be  forgiven 


The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  273 

for  turning  Chance  into  Design.  The  bucketing 
went  forward  merrily.  The  Afghan  forces  were 
upon  the  run — the  run  of  wearied  wolves  who 
snarl  and  bite  over  their  shoulders.  The  red 
lances  dipped  by  twos  and  threes,  and,  with  a 
shriek,  up  rose  the  lance-butt,  like  a  spar  on  a 
stormy  sea,  as  the  trooper  cantering  forward 
cleared  his  point.  The  Lancers  kept  between 
their  prey  and  the  steep  hills,  for  all  who  could 
were  trying  to  escape  from  the  valley  of  death. 
The  Highlanders  gave  the  fugitives  two  hundred 
yards'  law,  and  then  brought  them  down,  gasp- 
ing and  choking  ere  they  could  reach  the  protec- 
tion of  the  bowlders  above.  The  Gurkhas  fol- 
lowed suit;  but  the  Fore  and  Aft  were  killing  on 
their  own  account,  for  they  had  penned  a  mass 
of  men  between  their  bayonets  and  a  wall  of 
rock,  and  the  flash  of  the  rifles  was  lighting  the 
wadded  coats. 

"We  cannot  hold  them,  Captain  Sahib!" 
panted  a  Ressaidar  of  Lancers.  "  Let  us  try  the 
carbine.     The  lance  is  good,  but  it  wastes  time." 

They  tried  the  carbine,  and  still  the  enemy 
melted  away — fled  up  the  hills  by  hundreds  when 
there  were  only  twenty  bullets  to  stop  them.  On 
the  heights  the  screw-guns  ceased  firing — they 
had  run  out  of  ammunition — and  the  Brigadier 
groaned,  for  the  musketry  fire  could  not  suffi- 
ciently smash  the  retreat.     Long  before  the  last 


274  Indian  Tales 

volleys  were  fired,  the  litters  were  out  in  force 
looking  for  the  wounded.  The  battle  was  over, 
and,  but  for  want  of  fresh  troops,  the  Afghans 
would  have  been  wiped  off  the  earth.  As  it  was 
they  counted  their  dead  by  hundreds,  and  no- 
where were  the  dead  thicker  than  in  the  track  of 
the  Fore  and  Aft. 

But  the  Regiment  did  not  cheer  with  the  High- 
landers, nor  did  they  dance  uncouth  dances  with 
the  Gurkhas  among  the  dead.  They  looked 
under  their  brows  at  the  Colonel  as  they  leaned 
upon  their  rifles  and  panted. 

"Get  back  to  camp,  you.  Haven't  you  dis- 
graced yourself  enough  for  one  day!  Go  and 
look  to  the  wounded.  It's  all  you're  fit  for," 
said  the  Colonel.  Yet  for  the  past  hour  the  Fore 
and  Aft  had  been  doing  all  that  mortal  com- 
mander could  expect-  They  had  lost  heavily  be- 
cause they  did  not  know  how  to  set  about  their 
business  with  proper  skill,  but  they  had  borne 
themselves  gallantly,  and  this  was  their  reward. 

A  young  and  sprightly  Color-Sergeant,  who 
had  begun  to  imagine  himself  a  hero,  offered  his 
water-bottle  to  a  Highlander,  whose  tongue  was 
black  with  thirst.  "I  drink  with  no  cowards," 
answered  the  youngster,  huskily,  and,  turning  to 
a  Gurkha,  said,  "  Hya,  Johnny!  Drink  water  got 
it.?''  The  Gurkha  grinned  and  passed  his  bottle. 
The  Fore  and  Aft  said  no  word. 


77?^  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  275 

They  went  back  to  camp  when  the  field  of 
strife  had  been  a  little  mopped  up  and  made 
presentable,  and  the  Brigadier,  who  saw  himself 
a  Knight  in  three  months,  was  the  only  soul  who 
was  complimentary  to  them.  The  Colonel  was 
heart-broken  and  the  officers  were  savage  and 
sullen. 

"Well,"  said  the  Brigadier,  "they  are  young 
troops  of  course,  and  it  was  not  unnatural  that 
they  should  retire  in  disorder  for  a  bit." 

"Oh,  my  only  Aunt  Maria!  "  murmured  a  jun- 
ior Staff  Officer.  "  Retire  in  disorder!  It  was  a 
bally  run! " 

"  But  they  came  again  as  we  all  know,"  cooed 
the  Brigadier,  the  Colonel's  ashy-white  face  be- 
fore him,  "and  they  behaved  as  well  as  could 
possibly  be  expected.  Behaved  beautifully,  in- 
deed. 1  was  watching  them.  It's  not  a  matter 
to  take  to  heart,  Colonel.  As  some  German 
General  said  of  his  men,  they  wanted  to  be 
shooted  over  a  little,  that  was  all."  To  himself 
he  said:  *' Now  they're  blooded  I  can  give  'em 
t'esponsible  work.  It's  as  well  that  they  got 
what  they  did.  'Teach  'em  more  than  half  a 
dozen  rifle  flirtations,  that  will — later — run  alone 
and  bite.     Poor  old  Colonel,  though." 

All  that  afternoon  the  heliograph  winked  and 
flickered  on  the  hills,  striving  to  tell  the  good 
news  to  a  mountain  forty  miles  away.     And  in 


276  Indian  Tales 

the  evening  there  arrived,  dusty,  sweating,  and 
sore,  a  misguided  Correspondent  who  had  gone 
out  to  assist  at  a  trumpery  village-burning  and 
who  had  read  off  the  message  from  afar,  cursing 
his  luck  the  while. 

"Let's  have  the  details  somehow — as  full  as 
ever  you  can,  please.  It's  the  first  time  I've  ever 
been  left  this  campaign,"  said  the  Correspondent 
to  the  Brigadier;  and  the  Brigadier,  nothing  loath, 
told  him  how  an  Army  of  Communication  had 
been  crumpled  up,  destroyed,  and  all  but  anni- 
hilated by  the  craft,  strategy,  wisdom,  and  fore- 
sight of  the  Brigadier. 

But  some  say,  and  among  these  be  the  Gurkhas 
who  watched  on  the  hillside,  that  that  battle  was 
won  by  Jakin  and  Lew,  whose  little  bodies  were 
borne  up  just  in  time  to  fit  two  gaps  at  the  head 
of  the  big  ditch-grave  for  the  dead  under  the 
heights  of  Jagai. 


THE  SENDING  OF  DANA  DA 

When  the  Devil  rides  on  your  chest  remember  the  ckaviar.— 
Amative  Proverb. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  some  people  in  India 
made  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  Earth  out 
of  broken  tea-cups,  a  missing  brooch  or  two, 
and  a  hair-brush.  These  were  hidden  under 
brushes,  or  stuffed  into  holes  in  the  hillside, 
and  an  entire  Civil  Service  of  subordinate  Gods 
used  to  find  or  mend  them-  again;  and  every  one 
said:  "There  are  more  things  in  Heaven  and 
Earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy." 
Several  other  things  happened  also,  but  the  Re- 
ligion never  seemed  to  get  much  beyond  its  first 
manifestations;  though  it  added  an  air-line  postal 
service,  and  orchestral  effects  in  order  to  keep 
abreast  of  the  times,  and  choke  off  competition. 
This  Religion  was  too  elastic  for  ordinary  use. 
It  stretched  itself  and  embraced  pieces  of  every- 
thing that  the  medicine-men  of  all  ages  have 
manufactured.  It  approved  of  and  stole  from 
Freemasonry;  looted  the  Latter-day  Rosicrucians 
of  half  their  pet  words;  took  any  fragments  of 
Egyptian  philosophy  that  it  found  in  the  Ency- 
clopoedia  Britannica ;  annexed  as  many  of  the 
277 


2/8  Indian   Tales 

Vedas  as  had  been  translated  into  French  or  Eng- 
lish, and  talked  of  all  the  rest;  built  in  the  Ger- 
man versions  of  what  is  left  of  the  Zend  Avesta; 
encouraged  White,  Grey  and  Black  Magic,  in- 
cluding spiritualism,  palmistry,  fortune-telling  by 
cards,  hot  chestnuts,  double-kerneled  nuts  and 
tallow  droppings;  would  have  adopted  Voodoo 
and  Oboe  had  it  known  anything  about  them, 
and  showed  itself,  in  every  way,  one  of  the  most 
accommodating  arrangements  that  had  ever  been 
invented  since  the  birth  of  the  Sea. 

When  it  was  in  thorough  working  order,  with 
all  the  machinery,  down  to  the  subscriptions, 
complete,.  Dana  Da  came  from  nowhere,  with 
nothing  in  his  hands,  and  wrote  a  chapter  in  its 
history  which  has  hitherto  been  unpublished. 
He  said  that  his  first  name  was  Dana,  and  his 
second  was  Da.  Now,  setting  aside  Dana  of  the 
New  York  Sun,  Dana  is  a  Bhil  name,  and  Da  fits 
no  native  of  India  unless  you  except  the  Bengali. 
De  as  the  original  spelling.  Da  is  Lap  or  Finnish; 
and  Dana  Da  was  neither  Finn,  Chin,  Bhil,  Ben- 
gali, Lap,  Nair,  Gond,  Romaney,  Magh,  Bok- 
hariot,  Kurd,  Armenian,  Levantine,  Jew,  Per- 
sian, Punjabi,  Madrasi,  Parsee,  nor  anything  else 
known  to  ethnologists.  He  was  simply  Dana 
Da,  and  declined  to  give  further  information. 
For  the  sake  of  brevity  and  as  roughly  indicating 
his   origin,    he   was   called    "The  Native."     He 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  279 

might  have  been  the  original  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains,  who  is  said  to  be  the  only  authorized 
head  of  the  Tea-cup  Creed.  Some  people  said 
that  he  was;  but  Dana  Da  used  to  smile  and  deny 
any  connection  with  the  cult;  explaining  that  he 
was  an  "Independent  Experimenter." 

As  1  have  said,  he  came  from  nowhere,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  studied  the  Creed 
for  three  weeks;  sitting  at  the  feet  of  those  best 
competent  to  explain  its  mysteries.  Then  he 
laughed  aloud  and  went  away,  but  the  laugh 
might  have  been  either  of  devotion  or  derision. 

When  he  returned  he  was  without  m.oney,  but 
his  pride  was  unabated.  He  declared  that  he 
knew  more  about  the  Things  in  Heaven  and 
Earth  than  those  who  taught  him,  and  for  this 
contumacy  was  abandoned  altogether. 

His  next  appearance  in  public  life  was  at  a  big 
cantonment  in  Upper  India,  and  he  was  then  tell- 
ing fortunes  with  the  help  of  three  leaden  dice,  a 
very  dirty  old  cloth,  and  a  little  tin  box  of  opium 
pills.  He  told  better  fortunes  when  he  was  al- 
lowed half  a  bottle  of  whiskey;  but  the  things 
which  he  invented  on  the  opium  were  quite 
worth  the  money.  He  was  in  reduced  circum- 
stances. Among  other  people's  he  told  the  foi- 
tune  of  an  Englishman  who  had  once  been  inter- 
ested in  the  Simla  Creed,  but  who,  later  on,  had 
married  and  forgrotten  all  his  old  knowledare  in 


28o  Indian   Tales 

the  study  of  babies  and  things.  The  Englishman 
allowed  Dana  Da  to  tell  a  fortune  for  charity's 
sake,  and  gave  him  five  rupees,  a  dinner,  and 
some  old  clothes.  When  he  had  eaten,  Dana  Da 
professed  gratitude,  and  asked  if  there  were  any- 
thing he  could  do  for  his  host — in  the  esoteric  line. 

"  Is  there  any  one  that  you  love  .^"  said  Dana 
Da.  The  Englishman  loved  his  wife,  but  had  no 
desire  to  drag  her  name  into  the  conversation. 
He  therefore  shook  his  head. 

"Is  there  any  one  that  you  hate.?"  said  Dana 
Da.  The  Englishman  said  that  there  were  sev- 
eral men  whom  he  hated  deeply. 

"Very  good,"  said  Dana  Da,  upon  whom  the 
whiskey  and  the  opium  were  beginning  to  tell. 
"Only  give  me  their  names,  and  1  will  despatch 
a  Sending  to  them  and  kill  them." 

Now  a  Sending  is  a  horrible  arrangement,  first 
invented,  they  say,  in  Iceland.  It  is  a  Thing  sent 
by  a  wizard,  and  may  take  any  form,  but,  most 
generally,  wanders  about  the  land  in  the  shape 
of  a  little  purple  cloud  till  it  finds  the  Sendee, 
and  him  it  kills  by  changing  into  the  form  of  a 
horse,  or  a  cat,  or  a  m.an  without  a  face.  It  is 
not  strictly  a  native  patent,  though  chamars  of 
the  skin  and  hide  castes  can,  if  irritated,  despatch 
a  Sending  which  sits  on  the  breast  of  their  enemy 
by  night  and  nearly  kills  him.  Very  few  natives 
care  to  irritate  chamars  for  this  reason. 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  281 

"Let  me  despatch  a  Sending,"  said  Dana  Da; 
"  I  am  nearly  dead  now  witii  want,  and  drink, 
and  opium;  but  I  should  like  to  kill  a  man  before 
I  die.  I  can  send  a  Sending  anywhere  you 
choose,  and  in  any  form  except  in  the  shape  of  a 
man." 

The  Englishman  had  no  friends  that  he  wished 
to  kill,  but  partly  to  soothe  Dana  Da,  whose  eyes 
were  rolling,  and  partly  to  see  what  would  be 
done,  he  asked  whether  a  modified  Sending  could 
not  be  arranged  for — such  a  Sending  as  should 
make  a  man's  life  a  burden  to  him,  and  yet  do 
him  no  harm.  If  this  were  possible,  he  notified 
his  willingness  to  give  Dana  Da  ten  rupees  for 
the  job. 

"1  am  not  what  I  was  once,"  said  Dana  Da, 
"and  I  must  take  the  money  because  I  am  poor. 
To  what  Englishman  shall  I  send  it }  " 

"Send  a  Sending  to  Lone  Sahib,"  said  the 
Englishman,  naming  a  man  who  had  been  most 
bitter  in  rebuking  him  for  his  apostasy  from  the 
Tea-cup  Creed.     Dana  Da  laughed  and  nodded. 

"!  could  have  chosen  no  better  man  myself," 
said  he.  "1  will  see  that  he  finds  the  Sending 
about  his  path  and  about  his  bed." 

He  lay  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  turned  up  the 
whites  of  his  eyes,  shivered  all  over  and  began 
to  snort.  This  was  Magic,  or  Opium,  or  the 
Sending,  or  all  three.     When  he  opened  his  eyes 


282  Indian  Tales 

he  vowed  that  the  Sending  had  started  upon  the 
war-path,  and  was  at  that  moment  flying  up  to 
the  town  where  Lone  Sahib  Hves. 

"Give  me  my  ten  rupees,"  said  Dana  Da, 
wearily,  "  and  write  a  letter  to  Lone  Sahib,  telling 
him,  and  all  who  believe  with  him,  that  you  and 
a  friend  are  using  a  power  greater  than  theirs. 
They  will  see  that  you  are  speaking  the  truth." 

He  departed  unsteadily,  with  the  promise  of 
some  more  rupees  if  anything  came  of  the  Send- 
ing. 

The  Englishman  sent  a  letter  to  Lone  Sahib, 
couched  in  what  he  remembered  of  the  terminol- 
ogy of  the  Creed.  He  wrote:  "I  also,  in  the 
days  of  what  you  held  to  be  my  backsliding, 
have  obtained  Enlightenment,  and  with  Enlight- 
enment has  come  Power."  Then  he  grew  so 
deeply  mysterious  that  the  recipient  of  the  letter 
could  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it,  and  was 
proportionately  impressed;  for  he  fancied  that 
his  friend  had  become  a  "fifth-rounder."  When 
a  man  is  a  "fifth-rounder"  he  can  do  more  than 
Slade  and  Houdin  combined. 

Lone  Sahib  read  the  letter  in  five  different  fash- 
ions, and  was  beginning  a  sixth  interpretation 
when  his  bearer  dashed  in  with  the  news  that 
there  was  a  cat  on  the  bed.  Now  if  there  was 
one  thing  that  Lone  Sahib  hated  more  than  an- 
other, it  was  a  cat.     He  scolded  the  bearer  for 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  283 

not  turning  it  out  of  the  house.  The  bearer  said 
that  he  was  afraid.  All  the  doors  of  the  bedroom 
had  been  shut  throughout  the  morning,  and  no 
real  cat  could  possibly  have  entered  the  room. 
He  would  prefer  not  to  meddle  with  the  creature. 

Lone  Sahib  entered  the  room  gingerly,  and 
there,  on  the  pillow  of  his  bed,  sprawled  and 
whimpered  a  wee  white  kitten;  not  a  jumpsome, 
frisky  little  beast,  but  a  slug-like  crawler  with  its 
eyes  barely  opened  and  its  paws  lacking  strength 
or  direction — a  kitten  that  ought  to  have  been  in 
a  basket  with  its  mamma.  Lone  Sahib  caught 
it  by  the  scurff  of  its  neck,  handed  it  over  to  the 
sweeper  to  be  drowned,  and  fined  the  bearer 
four  annas. 

That  evening,  as  he  was  reading  in  his  room, 
he  fancied  that  he  saw  something  moving  about 
on  the  hearth-rug,  outside  the  circle  of  light  from 
his  reading-lamp.  When  the  thing  began  to 
myowl,  he  realized  that  it  was  a  kitten — a  wee 
white  kitten,  nearly  blind  and  very  miserable. 
He  was  seriously  angry,  and  spoke  bitterly  to  his 
bearer,  who  said  that  there  was  no  kitten  in  the 
room  when  he  brought  in  the  lamp,  and  real 
kittens  of  tender  age  generally  had  mother-cats 
in  attendance. 

"  If  the  Presence  will  go  out  into  the  veranda 
and  listen,"  said  the  bearer,  "he  will  hear  no 
cats.     How,   therefore,   can   the   kitten  on  the 


284  Indian   Tales 

bed  and  the  kitten  on  the  hearth-rug  be  real  kit- 
tens?" 

Lone  Sahib  went  out  to  listen,  and  the  bearer 
followed  him,  but  there  was  no  sound  of  any  one 
mewing  for  her  children.  He  returned  to  his 
room,  having  hurled  the  kitten  down  the  hillside, 
and  wrote  out  the  incidents  of  the  day  for  the 
benefit  of  his  co-religionists.  Those  people  were 
so  absolutely  free  from  superstition  that  they  as- 
cribed anything  a  little  out  of  the  common  to 
Agencies.  As  it  was  their  business  to  know  all 
about  the  Agencies,  they  were  on  terms  of  al- 
most indecent  familiarity  with  Manifestations  of 
every  kind.  Their  letters  dropped  from  the  ceil- 
ing— unstamped — and  Spirits  used  to  squatter  up 
and  down  their  staircases  all  night;  but  they  had 
never  come  into  contact  with  kittens.  Lone 
Sahib  wrote  out  the  facts,  noting  the  hour  and 
the  minute,  as  every  Psychical  Observer  is  bound 
to  do,  and  appending  the  Englishman's  letter  be- 
cause it  was  the  most  mysterious  document  and 
might  have  had  a  bearing  upon  anything  in  this 
world  or  the  next.  An  outsider  would  have 
translated  all  the  tangle  thus:  "  Look  out!  You 
laughed  at  me  once,  and  now  1  am  going  to 
make  you  sit  up." 

Lone  Sahib's  co-religionists  found  that  meaning 
in  it;  but  their  translation  was  refined  and  full  of 
four-syllable  words.     They  held  a  sederunt,  and 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  285 

were  filled  with  tremulous  joy,  for,  in  spite  of 
their  familiarity  with  all  the  other  worlds  and 
cycles,  they  had  a  very  human  awe  of  things 
sent  from  Ghost-land.  They  met  in  Lone  Sahib's 
room  in  shrouded  and  sepulchral  gloom,  and 
their  conclave  was  broken  up  by  clinking  among 
the  photo-frames  on  the  mantelpiece.  A  wee 
white  kitten,  nearly  blind,  was  looping  and 
writhing  itself  between  the  clock  and  the  candle- 
oticks.  That  stopped  all  investigations  or  doubt- 
ings.  Here  was  the  Manifestation  in  the  flesh. 
It  was,  so  far  as  could  be  seen,  devoid  of  pur- 
pose, but  it  was  a  Manifestation  of  undoubted 
authenticity. 

They  drafted  a  Round  Robin  to  the  English- 
man, the  backslider  of  old  days,  adjuring  him  in 
the  interests  of  the  Creed  to  explain  whether 
there  was  any  connection  between  the  embodi- 
ment of  some  Egyptian  God  or  other  (1  have  for- 
gotten the  name)  and  his  communication.  They 
called  the  kitten  Ra,  or  Toth,  or  Tum,  or  some 
thing;  and  when  Lone  Sahib  confessed  that  the 
first  one  had,  at  his  most  misguided  instance,  been 
drowned  by  the  sweeper,  they  said  consolingly 
that  in  his  next  life  he  would  be  a  "bounder," 
and  not  even  a  "rounder"  of  the  lowest  grade. 
These  words  may  not  be  quite  correct,  but  they 
accurately  express  the  sense  of  the  house. 

When    the    Englishman   received   the   Round 


286  Indian    Tales 

Robin — it  came  by  post — he  was  startled  and  be- 
wildered. He  sent  into  tlie  bazar  for  Dana  Da, 
who  read  the  letter  and  laughed.  "That  is  my 
Sending,"  said  he.  "1  told  you  1  would  work 
well.     Now  give  me  another  ten  rupees." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  is  this  gibberish  about 
Egyptian  Gods?"  asked  the  Englishman. 

"Cats,"  said  Dana  Da,  with  a  hiccough,  for  he 
had  discovered  the  Englishman's  whiskey  bottle. 
"Cats,  and  cats,  and  cats!  Never  was  such  a 
Sending.  A  hundred  of  cats.  Now  give  me  ten 
more  rupees  and  write  as  1  dictate." 

Dana  Da's  letter  was  a  curiosity.  It  bore  the 
Englishman's  signature,  and  hinted  at  cats — at  a 
Sending  of  Cats.  The  mere  words  on  paper 
were  creepy  and  uncanny  to  behold. 

"What  have  you  done,  though?"  said  ths 
Englishman;  "  1  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  can  actually  send 
this  absurd  Sending  you  talk  about?" 

"Judge  for  yourself,"  said  Dana  Da.  "  What 
does  that  letter  mean  ?  In  a  little  time  they  will 
all  be  at  my  feet  and  yours,  and  I — O  Glory! — 
will  be  drugged  or  drunk  all  day  long." 

Dana  Da  knew  his  people. 

When  a  man  who  hates  cats  wakes  up  in  the 
morning  and  finds  a  little  squirming  kitten  on  his 
breast,  or  puts  his  hands  into  his  ulster-pocket 
and    finds    a   little   half-dead   kitten   where   his 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  287 

gloves  should  be,  or  opens  his  trunk  and  finds 
a  vile  kitten  among  his  dress-shirts,  or  goes  for 
a  long  ride  with  his  mackintosh  strapped  on  his 
saddle-bow  and  shakes  a  little  squawling  kitten 
from  its  folds  when  he  opens  it,  or  goes  out  to 
dinner  and  finds  a  little  blind  kitten  under  his 
chair,  or  stays  at  home  and  finds  a  writhing  kit- 
ten under  the  quilt,  or  wriggling  among  his  boots, 
or  hanging,  head  downward,  in  his  tobacco-jar, 
or  being  mangled  by  his  terrier  in  the  veranda, — 
when  such  a  man  finds  one  kitten,  neither  more 
nor  less,  once  a  day  in  a  place  where  no  kitten 
rightly  could  or  should  be,  he  is  naturally  upset. 
When  he  dare  not  murder  his  daily  trove  be- 
cause he  believes  it  to  be  a  Manifestation,  an 
Emissary,  an  Embodiment,  and  half  a  dozen 
other  things  all  out  of  the  regular  course  of 
nature,  he  is  more  than  upset.  He  is  actually  dis- 
tressed. Some  of  Lone  Sahib's  co-religionists 
thought  that  he  was  a  highly  favored  individual; 
but  many  said  that  if  he  had  treated  the  first  kit- 
ten with  proper  respect — as  suited  a  Toth-Ra- 
Tum-Sennacherib  Embodiment — all  this  trouble 
would  have  been  averted.  They  compared  him 
to  the  Ancient  Mariner,  but  none  the  less  they 
were  proud  of  him  and  proud  of  the  Englishman 
who  had  sent  the  Manifestation.  They  did  not 
call  it  a  Sending  because  Icelandic  magic  was  not 
in  their  programme. 


288  Indian    Tales 

After  sixteen  kittens,  that  is  to  say  after  one 
fortnight,  for  there  were  three  kittens  on  the  first 
day  to  impress  the  fact  of  the  Sending,  the  whole 
camp  was  uplifted  by  a  letter — it  came  flying 
through  a  window — from  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains — the  Head  of  all  the  Creed — explain- 
ing the  Manifestation  in  the  most  beautiful  lan- 
guage and  soaking  up  all  the  credit  of  it  for  him- 
self. The  Englishman,  said  the  letter,  was  not 
there  at  all.  He  was  a  backslider  without  Power 
or  Asceticism,  who  couldn't  even  raise  a  table  by 
force  of  volition,  much  less  project  an  army  of 
kittens  through  space.  The  entire  arrangement, 
said  the  letter,  was  strictly  orthodox,  worked  and 
sanctioned  by  the  highest  Authorities  within  the 
pale  of  the  Creed.  There  was  great  joy  at  this, 
for  some  of  the  weaker  brethren  seeing  that  an 
outsider  who  had  been  working  on  independent 
lines  could  create  kittens,  whereas  their  own 
rulers  had  never  gone  beyond  crockery — and 
broken  at  best — were  showing  a  desire  to  break 
line  on  their  own  trail.  In  fact,  there  was  the 
promise  of  a  schism.  A  second  Round  Robin 
was  drafted  to  the  Englishman,  beginning:  "  O 
Scoffer,"  and  ending  with  a  selection  of  curses 
from  the  Rites  of  Mizraim  and  Memphis  and  the 
Commination  of  Jugana,  who  was  a  "fifth- 
rounder,"  upon  whose  name  an  unstart  "third- 
rounder"  once  traded.     A  papal  excommunica- 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  289 

tion  is  a  billet-doux  compared  to  the  Commina- 
tion  of  Jugana,  The  Englishman  had  been 
proved,  under  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountains,  to  have  appropriated  Virtue 
and  pretended  to  have  Power  which,  in  reality, 
belonged  only  to  the  Supreme  Head.  Naturally 
the  Round  Robin  did  not  spare  him. 

He  handed  the  letter  to  Dana  Da  to  translate 
into  decent  English.  The  effect  on  Dana  Da  was 
curious.  At  first  he  was  furiously  angry,  and 
then  he  laughed  for  five  minutes. 

"I  had  thought,"  he  said,  "that  they  would 
have  come  to  me.  In  another  week  I  would 
have  shown  that  I  sent  the  Sending,  and  they 
would  have  discrowned  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains  who  has  sent  this  Sending  of  mine. 
Do  you  do  nothing.  The  time  has  come  for  me 
to  act.  Write  as  1  dictate,  and  I  will  put  them  to 
shame.     But  give  me  ten  more  rupees." 

At  Dana  Da's  dictation  the  Englishman  wrote 
nothing  less  than  a  formal  challenge  to  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountains.  It  wourtd  up:  *'And  if 
this  Manifestation  be  from  your  hand,  then  let  it 
go  forward;  but  if  it  be  from  my  hand.  1  will 
that  the  Sending  shall  cease  in  two  days'  time. 
On  that  day  there  shall  be  twelve  kittens  and 
thenceforward  none  at  all.  The  people  shall 
judge  between  us,"  This  was  signed  by  Dana 
Da,  who  added  pentacles  and  pentagrams,  and  a 


290  Indian  Tales 

crux  ansaia,  and  half  a  dozen  swastikas,  and  a 
Triple  Tau  to  his  name,  just  to  show  that  he  was 
all  he  laid  claim  to  be. 

The  challenge  was  read  out  to  the  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  and  they  remembered  then  that  Dana 
Da  had  laughed  at  them  some  years  ago.  It  was 
officially  announced  that  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains  would  treat  the  matter  with  contempt; 
Dana  Da  being  an  Independent  Investigator  with- 
out a  single  "round"  at  the  back  of  him.  But 
this  did  not  soothe  his  people.  They  wanted  to 
see  a  fight.  They  were  very  human  for  all  their 
spirituality.  Lone  Sahib,  who  was  really  being 
worn  out  with  kittens,  submitted  meekly  to  his 
fate.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  "kittened  to 
prove  the  power  of  Dana  Da,"  as  the  poet  says. 

When  the  stated  day  dawned,  the  shower  of 
kittens  began.  Some  were  white  and  some  were 
tabby,  and  all  were  about  the  same  loathsome 
age.  Three  were  on  his  hearth-rug,  three  in  his 
bath-room,  and  the  other  six  turned  up  at  inter- 
vals among  the  visitors  who  came  to  see  the 
prophecy  break  down.  Never  was  a  more  satis- 
factory Sending.  On  the  next  day  there  were  no 
kittens,  and  the  next  day  and  all  the  other  days 
were  kittenless  and  quiet.  The  people  murmured 
and  looked  to  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountains  for 
an  explanation.  A  letter,  written  on  a  palm-leaf, 
dropped  from  the  ceiling,  but  every  one  except 


The  Sending  of  Dana  Da  291 

Lone  Sahib  felt  that  letters  were  not  what  the 
occasion  demanded.  There  should  have  been 
cats,  there  should  have  been  cats, — full-grown 
ones.  The  letter  proved  conclusively  that  there 
had  been  a  hitch  in  the  Psychic  Current  which, 
colliding  with  a  Dual  Identity,  had  interfered 
with  the  Percipient  Activity  all  along  the  main 
line.  The  kittens  were  still  going  on,  but  owing 
to  some  failure  in  the  Developing  Fluid,  they 
were  not  materialized.  The  air  was  thick  with 
letters  for  a  few  days  afterward.  Unseen  hands 
played  Gliick  and  Beethoven  on  finger-bowls  and 
clock-shades;  but  all  men  felt  that  Psychic  Life 
was  a  mockery  without  materialized  Kittens. 
Even  Lone  Sahib  shouted  with  the  majority  on 
this  head.  Dana  Da's  letters  were  very  insulting, 
and  if  he  had  then  offered  to  lead  a  new  depar- 
ture, there  is  no  knowing  what  might  not  have 
happened. 

But  Dana  Da  was  dying  of  whiskey  and  opium 
in  the  Englishman's  godown,  and  had  small  heart 
for  honors. 

"They  have  been  put  to  shame,"  said  he. 
"Never  was  such  a  Sending.     It  has  killed  me." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Englishman,  "you  are 
going  to  die,  Dana  Da,  and  that  sort  of  stuff 
must  be  left  behind.  I'll  admit  that  you  have 
made  some  queer  things  come  about.  Tell  me 
honestly,  now,  how  was  it  done  }" 


292  Indian   Tales 

"Give  me  ten  more  rupees,"  said  Dana  Da, 
faintly,  "and  if  I  die  before  1  spend  Ihem,  bury 
them  witii  me."  The  silver  was  counted  out 
while  Dana  Da  was  fighting  with  Death.  His 
hand  closed  upon  the  money  and  he  smiled  a 
grim  smile. 

"  Bend  low,"  he  whispered.  The  Englishman 
bent. 

"  Bimiiia  —  Mission  -  school  —  expelled  —  box  - 
wallah  (peddler)  —  Ceylon  pearl-merchant — all 
mine  English  education — out-casted,  and  made 
up  name  Dana  Da — England  with  American 
thought-reading  man  and — and — you  gave  me 
ten  rupees  several  times — 1  gave  the  Sahib's 
bearer  two-eight  a  month  for  cats — little,  little 
cats.  I  wrote,  and  he  put  them  about — very 
clever  man.  Very  few  kittens  now  in  the  ba^ar. 
Ask  Lone  Sahib's  sweeper's  wife." 

So  saying,  Dana  Da  gasped  and  passed  away 
into  a  land  where,  if  all  be  true,  there  are  no 
materializations  and  the  making  of  new  creeds  is 
discouraged. 

But  consider  the  gorgeous  simplicity  of  it  all  I 


ON  THE  CITY  WALL 

Then  she  let  them  down  by  a  cord  through  the  window ;  for 
her  house  was  upon  the  town-wall,  and  she  dwelt  upon  the 
wall. — Joshua  ii.  15. 

LALUN  is  a  member  of  the  most  ancient  pro- 
fession in  the  world.  Lilith  was  her  very- 
great-grandmamma,  and  that  was  before  the 
days  of  Eve  as  every  one  knows,  hi  the  West, 
people  say  rude  things  about  Lalun's  profession, 
and  write  lectures  about  it,  and  distribute  the 
lectures  to  young  persons  in  order  that  Morality 
may  be  preserved.  In  the  East  where  the  pro- 
fession is  hereditary,  descending  from  mother  to 
daughter,  nobody  writes  lectures  or  takes  any 
notice;  and  that  is  a  distinct  proof  of  the  inability 
of  the  East  to  manage  its  own  affairs. 

Lalun's  real  husband,  for  even  ladies  of  Lalun's 
profession  in  the  East  must  have  husbands,  was 
a  big  jujube-tree.  Her  Mamma,  who  had  mar- 
ried a  fig-tree,  spent  ten  thousand  rupees  on 
Lalun's  wedding,  which  was  blessed  by  forty- 
seven  clergymen  of  Mamma's  church,  and  dis- 
tributed five  thousand  rupees  in  charity  to  the 
poor.  And  that  was  the  custom  of  the  land. 
The  advantages   of  having  a  jujube-tree  for  a 

293 


294  Indian   Tales 

husband  are  obvious.  You  cannot  hurt  his  feel- 
ings, and  he  looks  imposing. 

Lalun's  husband  stood  on  the  plain  outside  the 
City  walls,  and  Lalun's  house  was  upon  the  east 
Wall  facing  the  river.  If  you  fell  from  the  broad 
window-seat  you  dropped  thirty  feet  sheer  into 
the  City  Ditch.  But  if  you  stayed  where  you 
should  and  looked  forth,  you  saw  all  the  cattle 
of  the  City  being  driven  down  to  water,  the 
students  of  the  Government  College  playing 
cricket,  the  high  grass  and  trees  that  fringed  the 
liver-bank,  the  great  sand  bars  that  ribbed  the 
river,  the  red  tombs  of  dead  Emperors  beyond 
the  river,  and  very  far  away  through  the  blue 
heat-haze,  a  glint  of  the  snows  of  the  Himalayas. 

Wall  Dad  used  to  lie  in  the  window-seat  for 
hours  at  a  time  watching  this  view.  He  was  a 
young  Muhammadan  who  was  suffering  acutely 
from  education  of  the  English  variety  and  knew 
it.  His  father  had  sent  him  to  a  Mission-school 
to  get  wisdom,  and  Wall  Dad  had  absorbed  more 
than  ever  his  father  or  the  Missionaries  intended 
he  should.  When  his  father  died,  Wall  Dad  was 
independent  and  spent  two  years  experimenting 
with  the  creeds  of  the  Earth  and  reading  books 
that  are  of  no  use  to  anybody. 

After  he  had  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
enter  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  and  the  Pres- 
byterian fold  at  the  same  time  (the  Missionaries 


On  the  City  Wall  295 

found  him  out  and  called  him  names,  but  they 
did  not  understand  his  trouble),  he  discovered 
Lalun  on  the  City  wall  and  became  the  most  con- 
stant of  her  few  admirers.  He  possessed  a  head 
that  English  artists  at  home  would  rave  over  and 
paint  amid  impossible  surroundings — a  face  that 
female  novelists  would  use  with  delight  through 
nine  hundred  pages.  In  reality  he  was  only  a 
clean-bred  young  Muhammadan,  with  penciled 
eyebrows,  small-cut  nostrils,  little  feet  and 
hands,  and  a  very  tired  look  in  his  eyes.  By  vir- 
tue of  his  twenty-two  years  he  had  grown  a  neat 
black  beard  which  he  stroked  with  pride  and 
kept  delicately  scented.  His  life  seemed  to  be 
divided  between  borrowing  books  from  me  and 
making  love  to  Lalun  in  the  window-seat.  He 
composed  songs  about  her,  and  some  of  the 
songs  are  sung  to  this  day  in  the  City  from  the 
Street  of  the  Mutton-Butchers  to  the  Copper- 
Smiths'  ward. 

One  song,  the  prettiest  of  all,  says  that  the 
beauty  of  Lalun  was  so  great  that  it  troubled  the 
hearts  of  the  British  Government  and  caused 
them  to  lose  their  peace  of  mind.  That  is  the 
way  the  song  is  sung  in  the  streets;  but,  if  you 
examine  it  carefully  and  know  the  key  to  the  ex- 
planation, you  will  find  that  there  are  three  puns 
in  it — on  "beauty,"  "heart,"  and  "peace  of 
mind," — so  that  it  runs:     "By  the  subtlety  of 


296  Indian   Tales- 

Lalun  the  administration  of  the  Government  was 
troubled  and  it  lost  such  and  such  a  man." 
When  Wall  Dad  sings  that  song  his  eyes  glow 
like  hot  coals,  and  Lalun  leans  back  among  the 
cushions  and  throws  bunches  of  jasmine-buds  at 
Wall  Dad. 

But  first  it  is  necessary  to  explain  something 
about  the  Supreme  Government  which  is  above 
all  and  below  all  and  behind  all.  Gentlemen 
come  from  England,  spend  a  few  weeks  in  India, 
walk  round  this  great  Sphinx  of  the  Plains,  and 
write  books  upon  its  ways  and  its  works,  de- 
nouncing or  praising  it  as  their  own  ignorance 
prompts.  Consequently  all  the  world  knows 
how  the  Supreme  Government  conducts  itself. 
But  no  one,  not  even  the  Supreme  Government, 
knows  everything  about  the  administration  of  the 
Empire.  Year  by  year  England  sends  out  fresh 
drafts  for  the  first  fighting-line,  which  is  officially 
called  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  These  die,  or  kill 
themselves  by  overwork,  or  are  worried  to  death 
or  broken  in  health  and  hope  in  order  that  the 
land  may  be  protected  from  death  and  sickness, 
famine  and  war,  and  may  eventually  become 
capable  of  standing  alone.  It  will  never  stand 
alone,  but  the  idea  is  a  pretty  one,  and  men  are 
willing  to  die  for  it,  and  yearly  the  work  of  push- 
ing and  coaxing  and  scolding  and  petting  the 
country  into  good  living  goes  forward.     If  an 


On  the  City  Wall  297 

advance  be  made  all  credit  is  given  to  the  native, 
while  the  Englishmen  stand  back  and  wipe  their 
foreheads.  If  a  failure  occurs  the  Englishmen 
step  forward  and  take  the  blame.  Overmuch 
tenderness  of  this  kind  has  bred  a  strong  belief 
among  many  natives  that  the  native  is  capable  of 
administering  the  country,  and  many  devout 
Englishmen  believe  this  also,  because  the  theory 
is  stated  in  beautiful  English  with  all  the  latest 
political  color. 

There  be  other  men  who,  though  uneducated, 
see  visions  and  dream  dreams,  and  they,  too, 
hope  to  administer  the  country  in  their  own  way 
— that  is  to  say,  with  a  garnish  of  Red  Sauce. 
Such  men  must  exist  among  two  hundred  million 
people,  and,  if  they  are  not  attended  to,  may 
cause  trouble  and  even  break  the  great  idol  called 
Pax  Britannic,  which,  as  the  newspapers  say, 
lives  between  Peshawur  and  Cape  Comorin. 
Were  the  Day  of  Doom  to  dawn  to-morrow,  you 
would  find  the  Supreme  Government  "taking 
measures  to  allay  popular  excitement"  and  put- 
ting guards  upon  the  graveyards  that  the  Dead 
might  troop  forth  orderly.  The  youngest  Civil- 
ian would  arrest  Gabriel  on  his  own  responsibil- 
ity if  the  Archangel  could  not  produce  a  Deputy 
Commissioner's  permission  to  "  make  music  or 
other  noises  "  as  the  license  says. 

Whence  it  is  easy  to  see  that  mere  men  of  the 


298  Indian  Tales 

flesh  who  would  create  a  tumult  must  fare  badly 
at  the  hands  of  the  Supreme  Government.  And 
they  do.  There  is  no  outward  sign  of  excite- 
ment; there  is  no  confusion;  there  is  no  knowl- 
edge. When  due  and  sufficient  reasons  have 
been  given,  weighed  and  approved,  the  machin- 
ery moves  forward,  and  the  dreamer  of  dreams 
and  the  seer  of  visions  is  gone  from  his  friends 
and  following.  He  enjoys  the  hospitality  of 
Government;  there  is  no  restriction  upon  his 
movements  within  certain  limits;  but  he  must 
not  confer  any  more  with  his  brother  dreamers. 
Once  in  every  six  months  the  Supreme  Govern- 
ment assures  itself  that  he  is  well  and  takes 
formal  acknowledgment  of  his  existence.  No  one 
protests  against  his  detention,  because  the  few 
people  who  know  about  it  are  in  deadly  fear  of 
seeming  to  know  him;  and  never  a  single  news- 
paper "takes  up  his  case"  or  organizes  demon- 
strations on  his  behalf,  because  the  newspapers 
of  India  have  got  behind  that  lying  proverb 
which  says  the  Pen  is  mightier  than  the  Sword, 
and  can  walk  delicately. 

So  now  you  know  as  much  as  you  ought 
about  Wali  Dad,  the  educational  mixture,  and 
the  Supreme  Government. 

Lalun  has  not  yet  been  described.  She  would 
need,  so  Wali  Dad  says,  a  thousand  pens  of  gold 
and  ink  scented  with  musk.     She  has  been  vari- 


On  the  City  Wall  299 

ously  compared  to  the  Moon,  the  Dil  Sagar  Lake, 
a  spotted  quail,  a  gazelle,  the  Sun  on  the  Desert 
of  Kutch,  the  Dawn,  the  Stars,  and  the  young 
bamboo.  These  comparisons  imply  that  she  is 
beautiful  exceedingly  according  to  the  native 
standards,  which  are  practically  the  same  as  those 
of  the  West.  Her  eyes  are  black  and  her  hair  is 
black,  and  her  eyebrows  are  black  as  leeches; 
her  mouth  is  tiny  and  says  witty  things;  her 
hands  are  tiny  and  have  saved  much  money;  her 
feet  are  tiny  and  have  trodden  on  the  naked 
hearts  of  many  men.  But,  as  Wali  Dad  sings: 
"Lalun  is  Lalun,  and  when  you  have  said  that, 
you  have  only  come  to  the  Beginnings  of  Knowl- 
edge." 

The  little  house  on  the  City  wall  was  just  big 
enough  to  hold  Lalun,  and  her  maid,  and  a 
pussy-cat  with  a  silver  collar.  A  big  pink  and 
blue  cut-glass  chandelier  hung  from  the  ceiling 
of  the  reception  room.  A  petty  Nawab  had 
given  Lalun  the  horror,  and  she  kept  it  for  polite- 
ness' sake.  The  floor  of  the  room  was  of  pol- 
ished chunam,  white  as  curds.  A  latticed  win- 
dow of  carved  wood  was  set  in  one  wall;  there 
was  a  profusion  of  squabby  pluffy  cushions  and 
fat  carpets  everywhere,  and  Lalun's  silver  hitqa, 
studded  with  turquoises,  had  a  special  little  car- 
pet all  to  its  shining  self,  Wali  Dad  was  nearly 
as  permanent  a  fixture  as  the  chandelier.     As  I 


3CXD  Indian  Tales 

have  said,  he  lay  in  the  window-seat  and  medi- 
tated on  Life  and  Death  and  Lalun — specially 
Lalun.  The  feet  of  the  young  men  of  the  City 
tended  to  her  doorways  and  then — retired,  for 
Lalun  was  a  particular  maiden,  slow  of  speech, 
reserved  of  mind,  and  not  in  the  least  inclined  to 
orgies  which  were  nearly  certain  to  end  in  strife. 
"If  I  am  of  no  value,  1  am  unworthy  of  this 
honor,"  said  Lalun.  "If  I  am  of  value,  they  are 
unworthy  of  Me."  And  that  was  a  crooked 
sentence. 

In  the  long  hot  nights  of  latter  April  and  May 
all  the  City  seemed  to  assemble  in  Lalun's  little 
white  room  to  smoke  and  to  talk.  Shiahs  of  the 
grimmest  and  most  uncompromising  persuasion; 
Sufis  who  had  lost  all  belief  in  the  Prophet  and 
retained  but  little  in  God;  wandering  Hindu 
priests  passing  southward  on  their  way  to  the 
Central  India  fairs  and  other  affairs;  Pundits  in 
black  gowns,  with  spectacles  on  their  noses  and 
undigested  wisdom  in  their  insides;  bearded 
headmen  of  the  wards;  Sikhs  with  all  the  details 
of  the  latest  ecclesiastical  scandal  in  the  Golden 
Temple;  red-eyed  priests  from  beyond  the  Bor- 
der, looking  like  trapped  wolves  and  talking  like 
ravens;  M.A.'s  of  the  University,  very  superior 
and  very  voluble — all  these  people  and  more  also 
you  might  find  in  the  white  room.  Wali  Dad 
lay  in  the  window-seat  and  listened  to  the  talk. 


On  the  Ciiy  Wall  301 

"It  is  Lalun's  salon,"  said  Wall  Dad  to  me, 
"and  it  is  electic — is  not  that  the  word  ?  Out- 
side of  a  Freemason's  Lodge  I  have  never  seen 
such  gatherings.  There  I  dined  once  with  a  Jew 
— a  Yahoudi!  "  He  spat  into  the  City  Ditch  with 
apologies  for  allowing  national  feelings  to  over- 
come him.  "Though  I  have  lost  every  belief  in 
the  world,"  said  he,  "  and  try  to  be  proud  of  my 
losing,  I  cannot  help  hating  a  Jew.  Lalun  admits 
no  Jews  here." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  do  all  these  men  do  .?" 
I  asked. 

"The  curse  of  our  country,"  said  Wali  Dad. 
"  They  talk.  It  is  like  the  Athenians — always 
hearing  and  telling  some  new  thing.  Ask  the 
Pearl  and  she  will  show  you  how  much  she 
knows  of  the  news  of  the  City  and  the  Province. 
Lalun  knows  everything." 

"  Lalun,"  I  said  at  random — she  was  talking  to 
a  gentleman  of  the  Kurd  persuasion  who  had 
come  in  from  God-knows-where — "  when  does 
the  175th  Regiment  go  to  Agra  }" 

"It  does  not  go  at  all,"  said  Lalun,  without 
turning  her  head.  "They  have  ordered  the  i  i8th 
to  go  in  its  stead.  That  Regiment  goes  to  Luck- 
now  in  three  months,  unless  they  give  a  fresh 
order." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Wali  Dad  without  a  shade 
of  doubt.     "Can  you,  with  your  telegrams  and 


302  Indian  Tales 

your  newspapers,  do  better  ?  Always  hearing 
and  telling  some  new  thing,"  he  went  on.  "  My 
friend,  has  your  God  ever  smitten  a  European 
nation  for  gossiping  in  the  bazars  ?  India  has 
gossiped  for  centuries — always  standing  in  the 
bazars  until  the  soldiers  go  by.  Therefore — you 
are  here  to-day  instead  of  starving  in  your  own 
country,  and  1  am  not  a  Muhammadan — I  am  a 
Product — a  Demnition  Product.  That  also  I  owe 
to  you  and  yours:  that  i  cannot  make  an  end  to 
my  sentence  without  quoting  from  your  authors." 
He  pulled  at  the  hiiqa  and  mourned,  half  feel- 
ingly, half  in  earnest,  for  the  shattered  hopes  of 
his  youth.  Wali  Dad  was  always  mourning  over 
something  or  other — the  country  of  which  he 
despaired,  or  the  creed  in  which  he  had  lost  faith, 
or  the  life  of  the  English  which  he  could  by  no 
means  understand. 

Lalun  never  mourned.  She  played  little  songs 
on  the  sHar,  and  to  hear  her  sing,  "  O  Peacock, 
cry  again,''  was  always  a  fresh  pleasure.  She 
knew  all  the  songs  that  have  ever  been  sung, 
from  the  war-songs  of  the  South  that  make  the 
old  men  angry  with  the  young  men  and  the 
young  men  angry  with  the  State,  to  the  love- 
songs  of  the  North  where  the  swords  whinny- 
whicker  like  angry  kites  in  the  pauses  between 
the  kisses,  and  the  Passes  fill  with  armed  men, 
and  the  Lover  is  torn  from  his  Beloved  and  cries, 


On  the  City  Wall  ^03 

Ai,  Ai,  All  evermore.  She  knew  how  to  make 
up  tobacco  for  the  J/nga  so  that  it  smelled  like  the 
Gates  of  Paradise  and  wafted  you  gently  through 
them.  She  could  embroider  strange  things  in 
gold  and  silver,  and  dance  softly  with  the  moon- 
light when  it  came  in  at  the  window.  Also  she 
knew  the  hearts  of  men,  and  the  heart  of  the 
City,  and  whose  wives  were  faithful  and  whose 
untrue,  and  more  of  the  secrets  of  the  Govern- 
ment Offices  than  are  good  to  be  set  down  in 
this  place.  Nasiban,  her  maid,  said  that  her 
jewelry  was  worth  ten  thousand  pounds,  and 
that,  some  night,  a  thief  would  enter  and  murder 
her  for  its  possession ;  but  Lalun  said  that  all  the 
City  would  tear  that  thief  limb  from  limb,  and 
that  he,  whoever  he  was,  knew  it. 

So  she  took  her  sifar  and  sat  in  the  window- 
seat  and  sang  a  song  of  old  days  that  had  been 
sung  by  a  girl  of  her  profession  in  an  armed  camp 
on  the  eve  of  a  great  battle — the  day  before  the 
Fords  of  the  Jumna  ran  red  and  Sivaji  fled  fifty 
miles  to  Delhi  with  a  Toorkh  stallion  at  hii" 
horse's  tail  and  another  Lalun  on  his  saddle-bo\^'. 
It  was  what  men  call  a  Mahratta  laonee,  and  It 
said: 

Their  warrior  forces  Chimnajee 

Before  the  Peishwa  led, 
The  Children  of  the  Sun  and  Fire 

Behind  him  turned  and  fled. 


304  tndian   Tales 

And  the  chorus  said: 

With  them  there  fought  who  rides  so  free 

With  sword  and  turban  red, 
The  warrior-youth  who  earns  his  fee 

At  peril  of  his  head. 

"At  peril  of  his  head,"  said  Wali  Dad  in  Eng- 
lish to  me.  "Thanks  to  your  Government,  all 
our  heads  are  protected,  and  with  the  educational 
facilities  at  my  command  " — his  eyes  twinkled 
wickedly — "1  might  be  a  distinguished  member 
of  the  local  administration.  Perhaps,  in  time,  I 
might  even  be  a  member  of  a  Legislative  Coun- 
cil." 

"Don't  speak  English,"  said  Lalun,  bending 
over  her  sitar  afresh.  The  chorus  went  out  from 
the  City  wall  to  the  blackened  wall  of  Fort 
Amara  which  dominates  the  City.  No  man 
knows  the  precise  extent  of  Fort  Amara.  Three 
kings  built  it  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  they 
say  that  there  are  miles  of  underground  rooms 
beneath  its  walls.  It  is  peopled  with  many 
ghosts,  a  detachment  of  Garrison  Artillery  and  a 
Company  of  Infantry.  In  its  prime  it  held  ten 
thousand  men  and  filled  its  ditches  with  corpses. 

"At  peril  of  his  head,"  sang  Lalun,  again  and 
again. 

A  head  moved  on  one  of  the  Ramparts — the 
grey  head  of  an  old  man — and  a  voice,  rough  as 


On  the  City  Wall  305 

shark-skin  on  a  sword-hilt,  sent  back  the  last  line 
of  the  chorus  and  broke  into  a  song  that  I  could 
not  understand,  though  Lalun  and  Wali  Dad 
listened  intently. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.     " Who  is  it .^" 

"A  consistent  man,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "He 
fought  you  in  '46,  when  he  was  a  warrior- 
youth;  refought  you  in  '57,  and  he  tried  to  fight 
you  in  '71,  but  you  had  learned  the  trick  of  blow- 
ing men  from  guns  too  well.  Now  he  is  old; 
but  he  would  still  fight  if  he  could." 

"  Is  he  a  Wahabi,  then  ?  Why  should  he  an- 
swer to  a  Mahratta  laoiiee  if  he  be  Wahabi — or 
Sikh.?"  said  I. 

"1  do  not  know,"  said  W^ali  Dad.  "  He  has 
lost  perhaps,  his  religion.  Perhaps  he  wishes  to 
be  a  King.  Perhaps  he  is  a  King.  I  do  not 
know  his  name." 

"That  is  a  lie,  Wali  Dad.  If  you  know  his 
career  you  must  know  his  name." 

"That  is  quite  true.  I  belong  to  a  nation  of 
liars.  I  would  rather  not  tell  you  his  name. 
Think  for  yourself." 

Lalun  finished  her  song,  pointed  to  the  Fort, 
and  said  simply:  "Khem  Singh." 

"  Hm,"  said  Wali  Dad.  "  If  the  Pearl  chooses 
to  tell  you  the  Pearl  is  a  fool." 

I  translated  to  Lalun,  who  laughed.  "  I  choose 
to  tell  what  I  choose  to  tell.     They  kept  Khem 


3o6  Indian  Tales 

Singh  in  Burma,"  said  she.  "They  kept  him 
there  for  many  years  until  his  mind  was  changed 
in  him.  So  great  was  the  kindness  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. Finding  this,  they  sent  him  back  to 
his  own  country  that  he  might  look  upon  it  be- 
fore he  died.  He  is  an  old  man,  but  when  he 
looks  upon  this  his  country  his  memory  will 
come.  Moreover,  there  be  many  who  remember 
him." 

"He  is  an  Interesting  Survival,"  said  Wall 
Dad,  pulling  at  the  Iniqa.  "  He  returns  to  a 
country  now  full  of  educational  and  political  re- 
form, but,  as  the  Pearl  says,  there  are  many  who 
remember  him.  He  was  once  a  great  man. 
There  will  never  be  any  more  great  men  in  India. 
They  will  all,  when  they  are  boys,  go  whoring 
after  strange  gods,  and  they  will  become  citizens 
— '  fellow-citizens  ' — '  illustrious  fellow-citizens.' 
What  is  it  that  the  native  papers  call  them  ?  " 

Wall  Dad  seemed  to  be  in  a  very  bad  temper. 
Lalun  looked  out  of  the  window  and  smiled  into 
tne  dust-haze.  1  went  away  thinking  about 
Khem  Singh  who  had  once  made  history  with  ? 
thousand  followers,  and  would  have  been  a 
princeling  but  for  the  power  of  the  Supreme 
Government  aforesaid. 

The  Senior  Captain  Commanding  Fort  Amara 
was  away  on  leave,  but  the  Subaltern,  his  Deputy, 
had   drifted   down   to  the  Club,  where  I  found 


On  the  City  Wall  307 

him  and  inquired  of  him  whether  it  was  really 
true  that  a  political  prisoner  had  been  added  to 
the  attractions  of  the  Fort.  The  Subaltern  ex- 
plained at  great  length,  for  this  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  held  Command  of  the  Fort,  and 
his  glory  lay  heavy  upon  him. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "a  man  was  sent  in  to  me 
about  a  week  ago  from  down  the  line — a  thorough 
gentleman  whoever  he  is.  Of  course  I  did  all  I 
could  for  him.  He  had  his  two  servants  and 
some  silver  cooking-pots,  and  he  looked  for  all 
the  world  like  a  native  officer.  1  called  him 
Subadar  Sahib;  just  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
y'know.  'Look  here,  Subadar  Sahib,'  I  said, 
'you're  handed  over  to  my  authority,  and  I'm 
supposed  to  guard  you.  Now  I  don't  want  to 
make  your  life  hard,  but  you  must  make  things 
easy  for  me.  All  the  Fort  is  at  your  disposal, 
from  the  flagstaff  to  the  dry  ditch,  and  I  shall  be 
happy  to  entertain  you  in  any  way  1  can,  but  you 
mustn't  take  advantage  of  it.  Give  me  your 
word  that  you  won't  try  to  escape,  Subadar 
Sahib,  and  I'll  give  you  my  word  that  you  shall 
have  no  heavy  guard  put  over  you.'  I  thought 
the  best  way  of  getting  him  was  by  going  at 
him  straight,  y'know,  and  it  was,  by  Jove!  The 
old  man  gave  me  his  word,  and  moved  about  the 
Fort  as  contented  as  a  sick  crow.  He's  a  rummy 
chap — always  asking  to  be  told  where  he  is  and 


3o8  Indian  Tales 

what  the  buildings  about  him  are.  I  had  to  sign 
a  shp  of  blue  paper  when  he  turned  up,  acknowl- 
edging receipt  of  his  body  and  all  that,  and  I'm 
responsible,  y'know,  that  he  doesn't  get  away. 
Queer  thing,  though,  looking  after  a  Johnnie  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandfather,  isn't  it  ?  Come 
to  the  Fort  one  of  these  days  and  see  him  ?" 

For  reasons  which  will  appear,  1  never  went  to 
the  Fort  while  Khem  Singh  was  then  within  its 
walls.  I  knew  him  only  as  a  grey  head  seen 
from  Lalun's  window — a  grey  head  and  a  harsh 
voice.  But  natives  told  me  that,  day  by  day,  as 
he  looked  upon  the  fair  lands  round  Amara,  his 
memory  came  back  to  him  and,  with  it,  the  old 
hatred  against  the  Government  that  had  been 
nearly  effaced  in  far-off  Burma.  So  he  raged  up 
and  down  the  West  face  of  the  Fort  from  morn- 
ing till  noon  and  from  evening  till  the  night,  de- 
vising vain  things  in  his  heart,  and  croaking  war- 
songs  when  Lalun  sang  on  the  City  wall.  As 
he  grew  more  acquainted  with  the  Subaltern  he 
unburdened  his  old  heart  of  some  of  the  passions 
that  had  withered  it.  "Sahib,"  he  used  to  say, 
tapping  his  stick  against  the  parapet,  "  when  I 
was  a  young  man  I  was  one  of  twenty  thousand 
horsemen  who  came  out  of  the  City  and  rode 
round  the  plain  here.  Sahib,  I  was  the  leader  of 
a  hundred,  then  of  a  thousand,  then  of  five  thou- 
sand, and  now!" — he  pointed  to  his  two  serv- 


On  the  City  Wall  309 

ants.  "But  from  the  beginning  to  to-day  I 
would  cut  the  throats  of  all  the  Sahibs  in  the  land 
if  I  could.  Hold  me  fast,  Sahib,  lest  I  get  away 
and  return  to  those  who  would  follow  me.  I 
forgot  them  when  I  was  in  Burma,  but  now  that 
1  am  in  my  own  country  again,  1  remember 
everything." 

"Do  you  remember  that  you  have  given  me 
your  Honor  not  to  make  your  tendance  a  hard 
matter  }"  said  the  Subaltern. 

"Yes,  to  you,  only  to  you.  Sahib,"  said  Khem 
Singh.  "To  you,  because  you  are  of  a  pleasant 
countenance,  if  my  turn  comes  again,  Sahib,  I 
will  not  hang  you  nor  cut  your  throat." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Subaltern,  gravely,  as 
he  looked  along  the  line  of  guns  that  could  pound 
the  City  to  powder  in  half  an  hour.  "  Let  us  go 
into  our  own  quarters,  Khem  Singh.  Come  and 
talk  with  me  after  dinner." 

Khem  Singh  would  sit  on  his  own  cushion 
at  the  Subaltern's  feet,  drinking  heavy,  scented 
anise-seed  brandy  in  great  gulps,  and  telling 
strange  stories  of  Fort  Amara,  which  had  been 
a  palace  in  the  old  days,  of  Begums  and  Ranees 
tortured  to  death — aye,  in  the  very  vaulted  cham- 
ber that  now  served  as  a  Mess-room;  would  tell 
stories  of  Sobraon  that  made  the  Subaltern's 
cheeks  flush  and  tingle  with  pride  of  race,  and 
of  the  Kuka  rising  from  which  so  much  was  ex' 


310  Indian   Tales 

pected  and  the  foreknowledge  of  which  was 
shared  by  a  hundred  thousand  souls.  But  he 
never  told  tales  of  '57  because,  as  he  said,  he  was 
the  Subaltern's  guest,  and  '57  is  a  year  that  no 
man,  Black  or  White,  cares  to  speak  of.  Once 
only,  when  the  anise-seed  brandy  had  slightly 
affected  his  head,  he  said:  "Sahib,  speaking 
now  of  a  matter  which  lay  between  Sobraon  and 
the  affair  of  the  Kukas,  it  was  ever  a  wonder  to 
us  that  you  stayed  your  hand  at  all,  and  that, 
having  stayed  it,  you  did  not  make  the  land  one 
prison.  Now  I  hear  from  without  that  you  do 
great  honor  to  all  men  of  our  country  and  by 
your  own  hands  are  destroying  the  Terror  of 
your  Name  which  is  your  strong  rock  and  de- 
fence. This  is  a  foolish  thing.  Will  oil  and 
water  mix  ?    Now  in  '57  " — 

"  I  was  not  born  then,  Subadar  Sahib,"  said 
the  Subaltern,  and  Khem  Singh  reeled  to  his 
quarters. 

The  Subaltern  would  tell  me  of  these  conver- 
sations at  the  Club,  and  my  desire  to  see  Khem 
Singh  increased.  But  Wali  Dad,  sitting  in  the 
window-seat  of  the  house  on  the  City  wall,  said 
that  it  would  be  a  cruel  thing  to  do,  and  Lalun 
pretended  that  1  preferred  the  society  of  a  grizzled 
old  Sikh  to  hers. 

"Here  is  tobacco,  here  is  talk,  here  are  many 
friends  and  all  the  news  of  the  City,  and,  above 


On  the  City  Wall  311 

all,  here  is  myself.  I  will  tell  you  stories  and 
sing  you  songs,  and  Wali  Dad  will  talk  his  Eng- 
lish nonsense  in  your  ears.  Is  that  worse  than 
watching  the  caged  animal  yonder  ?  Go  to-mor- 
row then,  if  you  must,  but  to-day  such  and  such 
an  one  will  be  here,  and  he  will  speak  of  won- 
derful things." 

It  happened  that  To-morrow  never  came,  and 
the  warm  heat  of  the  latter  Rains  gave  place  to 
the  chill  of  early  October  almost  before  I  was 
aware  of  the  flight  of  the  year.  The  Captain 
commanding  the  Fort  returned  from  leave  and 
took  over  charge  of  Khem  Singh  according  to  the 
laws  of  seniority.  The  Captain  was  not  a  nice 
man.  He  called  all  natives  "niggers,"  which, 
besides  being  extreme  bad  form,  shows  gross 
ignorance. 

"  "What's  the  use  of  telling  off  two  Tommies 
to  watch  that  old  nigger?"  said  he. 

"  I  fancy  it  soothes  his  vanity,"  said  the  Subal- 
tern. "  The  men  are  ordered  to  keep  well  out  of 
his  way,  but  he  takes  them  as  a  tribute  to  his  im- 
portance, poor  old  wretch." 

"I  won't  have  Line  men  taken  off  regular 
guards  in  this  way.  Put  on  a  couple  of  Native 
Infantry." 

"  Sikhs  .^"  said  the  Subaltern,  lifting  his  eye- 
brows. 

"Sikhs,    Pathans,    Dogras  —  they're  all  alike. 


3 1 2  Indian  Tales 

these  black  vermin,"  and  the  Captain  talked  to 
Khem  Singh  in  a  manner  which  hurt  that  old 
gentleman's  feelings.  Fifteen  years  before, 
when  he  had  been  caught  for  the  second  time, 
every  one  looked  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  tiger. 
He  liked  being  regarded  in  this  light.  But  he 
forgot  that  the  world  goes  forward  in  fifteen 
years,  and  many  Subalterns  are  promoted  to  Cap- 
taincies. 

The  Captain-pig  is  in  charge  of  the  Fort } " 
said  Khem  Singh  to  his  native  guard  every  morn- 
ing. And  the  native  guard  said:  "Yes,  Subadar 
Sahib,"  in  deference  to  his  age  and  his  air  of 
distinction;  but  they  did  not  know  who  he  was. 

In  those  days  the  gathering  in  Lalun's  little 
white  room  was  always  large  and  "talked  more 
than  before. 

"The  Greeks,"  said  Wali  Dad  who  had  been 
borrowing  my  books,  "the  inhabitants  of  the 
city  of  Athens,  where  they  were  always  hearing 
and  telling  some  new  thing,  rigorously  secluded 
their  women — v/ho  were  fools.  Hence  the 
glorious  institution  of  the  heterodox  women — is 
it  not  ? — who  were  amusing  and  not  fools.  All 
the  Greek  philosophers  delighted  in  their  com- 
pany. Tell  me,  my  friend,  how  it  goes  now  in 
Greece  and  the  other  places  upon  the  Continent 
of  Europe.   'Are  your  women-folk  also  fools  .?" 

"Wali  Dad,"  1  said,  "you  never  speak  to  us 


On  the  City  Wall  313 

about  your  women-folk  and  we  never  speak 
about  ours  to  you.     That  is  the  bar  between  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Wali  Dad,  "it  is  curious  to  think 
that  our  common  meeting-place  should  be  here,  in 
the  house  of  a  common — how  do  you  call  her}'' 
He  pointed  with  the  pipe-mouth  to  Lalun. 

"  Lalun  is  nothing  but  Lalun,"  I  said,  and  that 
was  perfectly  true.  "  But  if  you  took  your  place 
in  the  world,  Wali  Dad,  and  gave  up  dreaming 
dreams  " — 

"  I  might  wear  an  English  coat  and  trouser.  I 
might  be  a  leading  Muhammadan  pleader.  I 
might  be  received  even  at  the  Commissioner's 
tennis-parties  where  the  English  stand  on  one 
side  and  the  natives  on  the  other,  in  order  to 
promote  social  intercourse  throughout  the  Em- 
pire. Heart's  Heart,"  said  he  to  Lalun  quickly, 
"the  Sahib  says  that  I  ought  to  quit  you." 

"The  Sahib  is  always  talking  stupid  talk,"  re- 
turned Lalun,  with  a  laugh.  "  In  this  house  I  am 
a  Queen  and  thou  art  a  King.  The  Sahib" — she 
put  her  arms  above  her  head  and  thought  for  a 
moment — "  the  Sahib  shall  be  our  Vizier — thine 
and  mine,  Wali  Dad — because  he  has  said  that 
thou  shouldst  leave  me." 

Wali  Dad  laughed  immoderately,  and  I  laughed 
too.  "  Be  it  so,"  said  he.  "My  friend,  are  you 
willing  to  take  this  lucrative  Government  ap- 
pointment }    Lalun,  what  shall  his  pay  be  ?  " 


314  Indian  Tales 

But  Lalun  began  to  sing,  and  for  the  rest  of 
the  time  there  was  no  hope  of  getting  a  sensible 
answer  from  her  or  Wali  Dad.  When  the  one 
stopped,  the  other  began  to  quote  Persian  poetry 
with  a  triple  pun  in  every  other  line.  Some  of  it 
was  not  strictly  proper,  but  it  was  all  very  funny, 
and  it  only  came  to  an  end  when  a  fat  person  in 
black,  with  gold  pince-nei,  sent  up  his  name  to 
Lalun,  and  Wali  Dad  dragged  me  into  the  twink- 
ling night  to  walk  in  a  big  rose-garden  and  talk 
heresies  about  Religion  and  Governments  and  a 
man's  career  in  life. 

The  Mohurrum,  the  great  mourning-festival  of 
the  Muhammadans,  was  close  at  hand,  and  the 
things  that  Wali  Dad  said  about  religious  fanati- 
cism would  have  secured  his  expulsion  from  the 
loosest-thinking  Muslim  sect.  There  were  the 
rose-bushes  round  us,  the  stars  above  us,  and 
from  every  quarter  of  the  City  came  the  boom  of 
the  big  Mohurrum.  drums.  You  must  know  that 
the  City  is  divided  in  fairly  equal  proportions 
between  the  Hindus  and  the  Musalmans,  and 
where  both  creeds  belong  to  the  fighting  races,  a 
big  religious  festival  gives  ample  chance  for 
trouble.  When  they  can — that  is  to  say  when 
the  authorities  are  weak  enough  to  allow  it — the 
Hindus  do  their  best  to  arrange  some  minor 
feast-day  of  their  own  in  time  to  clash  with  the 
period    of    general    mourning   for  the  martyrs 


On  the  City  Wall  315 

Hasan  and  Hussain,  the  heroes  of  the  Mohurrum. 
Gilt  and  painted  paper  presentations  of  their 
tombs  are  borne  with  shouting  and  waiHng, 
music,  torches,  and  yells,  through  the  principal 
thoroughfares  of  the  City,  which  fakements  are 
called  taiias.  Their  passage  is  rigorously  laid 
down  beforehand  by  the  Police,  and  detachments 
of  Police  accompany  each  ta:{ia,  lest  the  Hindus 
should  throw  bricks  at  it  and  the  peace  of  the 
Queen  and  the  heads  of  Her  loyal  subjects  should 
thereby  be  broken.  Mohurrum  time  in  a  "  fight- 
ing" town  means  anxiety  to  all  the  officials, 
because,  if  a  riot  breaks  out,  the  officials  and  not 
the  rioters  are  held  responsible.  The  former 
must  foresee  everything,  and  while  not  making 
their  precautions  ridiculously  elaborate,  must  see 
that  they  are  at  least  adequate. 

"  Listen  to  the  drums!  "  said  Wall  Dad.  "That 
is  the  heart  of  the  people — empty  and  making 
much  noise.  How,  think  you,  will  the  Mohur- 
rum go  this  year?  /  think  that  there  will  be 
trouble." 

He  turned  down  a  side-street  and  left  me  alone 
with  the  stars  and  a  sleepy  Police  patrol.  Then 
I  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  that  Wali  Dad  had 
sacked  the  City  and  I  was  made  Vizier,  with 
Lalun's  silver  huqa  for  mark  of  office. 

All  day  the  Mohurrum  drums  beat  in  the  City, 
and  all  day  deputations  of  tearful  Hindu  gentle- 


3i6  Indian  Tales 

men  besieged  the  Deputy  Commissioner  with  as- 
surances that  they  would  be  murdered  ere  next 
dawning  by  the  Muhammadans.  "  Which,"  said 
the  Deputy  Commissioner,  in  confidence  to  the 
Head  of  PoHce,  "is  a  pretty  fair  indication  that 
the  Hindus  are  going  to  make  'emselves  unpleas- 
ant. I  think  we  can  arrange  a  little  surprise  for 
them.  I  have  given  the  heads  of  both  Creeds 
fair  warning.  If  they  choose  to  disregard  it,  so 
much  the  worse  for  them." 

There  was  a  large  gathering  in  Lalun's  house 
that  night,  but  of  men  that  I  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, if  I  except  the  fat  gentleman  in  black  with 
the  gold  pince-iiei.  Wall  Dad  lay  in  the  win- 
dow-seat, more  bitterly  scornful  cf  his  Faith 
and  its  manifestations  than  I  had  ever  known 
him.  Lalun's  maid  was  very  busy  cutting  up 
and  mixing  tobacco  for  the  guests.  We  could 
hear  the  thunder  of  the  drums  as  the  processions 
accompanying  each  ta:{ja  marched  to  the  central 
gathering-place  in  the  plain  outside  the  City, 
preparatory  to  their  triumphant  reentry  and  cir- 
cuit within  the  walls.  All  the  streets  seemed 
ablaze  with  torches,  and  only  Fort  Amara  was 
black  and  silent. 

When  the  noise  of  the  drums  ceased,  no  one 
in  the  white  room  spoke  for  a  time.  "  The  first 
ta^ia  has  moved  off,"  said  Wall  Dad,  looking  to 
the  plain. 


On  the  City  Wall  ■^ij 

"That  is  very  early,"  said  the  man  with  the 
pmce-nei. 

"  It  is  only  half-past  eight."  The  company 
rose  and  departed. 

"  Some  of  them  were  men  from  Ladakh,"  said 
Lalun,  when  the  last  had  gone.  "  They  brought 
me  brick-tea  such  as  the  Russians  sell,  and  a  tea- 
urn  from  Peshawur.  Show  me,  now,  how  the 
English  Menisahibs  make  tea." 

The  brick-tea  was  abominable.  When  it  was 
finished  Wall  Dad  suggested  going  into  the 
streets.  "I  am  nearly  sure  that  there  will  be 
trouble  to-night,"  he  said.  "  All  the  City  thinks 
so,  and  yox  Popiili  is  Vox  Dei,  as  the  Babus  say. 
Now  I  tell  you  that  at  the  corner  of  the  Padshahi 
Gate  you  will  fmd  my  horse  all  this  night  if  you 
want  to  go  about  and  to  see  things.  It  is  a  most 
disgraceful  exhibition.  Where  is  the  pleasure  of 
saying  '  Ya  Hasan,  Ya  Hussain,'  twenty  thousand 
times  in  a  night  ?" 

All  the  processions — there  were  two  and  tv/enty 
of  them — were  now  well  within  the  City  walls. 
The  drums  were  beating  afresh,  the  crowd  were 
howling  "Kz  Hasan/  Ya  Hitssainf"  and  beat- 
ing their  breasts,  the  brass  bands  were  playing 
their  loudest,  and  at  every  corner  where  space 
allowed,  Muhammadan  preachers  were  telling  the 
lamentable  story  of  the  death  of  the  Martyrs.  It 
was  impossible  to  move  except  with  the  crowd, 


3i8  Indian  Tales 

for  the  streets  were  not  more  than  twenty  feet 
wide.  In  the  Hindu  quarters  the  shutters  of  all 
the  shops  were  up  and  cross-barred.  As  the  first 
ta{ta,  a  gorgeous  erection  ten  feet  high,  was 
borne  aloft  on  the  shoulders  of  a  score  of  stout 
men  into  the  semi-darkness  of  the  Gully  of  the 
Horsemen,  a  brickbat  crashed  through  its  talc  and 
tinsel  sides. 

"Into  thy  hands,  O  Lord?"  murmured  Wall 
Dad,  profanely,  as  a  yell  went  up  from  behind, 
and  a  native  officer  of  Police  jammed  his  horse 
ihrough  the  crowd.  Another  brickbat  followed, 
and  the  ta:ita  staggered  and  swayed  where  it  had 
stopped. 

"Go  on!  In  the  name  of  the  Sirkar,  go  for- 
ward!" shouted  the  Policeman;  but  there  was  an 
ugly  cracking  and  splintering  of  shutters,  and  the 
crowd  halted,  with  oaths  and  growlings,  before 
the  house  whence  the  brickbat  had  been  thrown. 

Then,  without  any  warning,  broke  the  storm 
— not  only  in  the  Gully  of  the  Horsemen,  but  in 
half  a  dozen  other  places.  The  ta:{ias  rocked 
like  ships  at  sea,  the  long  pole-torches  dipped 
and  rose  round  them  while  the  men  shouted: 
"The  Hindus  are  dishonoring  the  tafias!  Strike! 
Strike!  Into  their  temples  for  the  faith!"  The 
six  or  eight  Policemen  with  each  ta:{ia  drew  their 
batons,  and  struck  as  long  as  they  could  in  the 
hope  of  forcing  the  mob  forward,  but  they  were 


On  the  City  Wall  319 

overpowered,  and  as  contingents  of  Hindus 
poured  into  the  streets,  the  fight  became  general. 
Half  a  mile  away  where  the  tafias  were  yet  un- 
touched the  drums  and  the  shrieks  oi  "Ya  Hasan! 
Ya  Htissain!"  continued,  but  not  for  long.  The 
priests  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  knocked  the 
legs  from  the  bedsteads  that  supported  their  pul- 
pits and  smote  for  the  Faith,  while  stones  fell 
from  the  silent  houses  upon  friend  and  foe,  and 
the  packed  streets  bellowed:  ''Dili!  Din!  Din!" 
A  ta:{_ia  caught  tire,  and  was  dropped  for  a  flam- 
ing barrier  between  Hindu  and  Musalman  at  the 
corner  of  the  Gully.  Then  the  crowd  surged 
forward,  and  Wall  Dad  drew  me  close  to  the 
stone  pillar  of  a  well. 

"It  was  intended  from  the  beginning!"  he 
shouted  in  my  ear,  with  more  heat  than  blank 
unbelief  should  be  guilty  of.  "  The  bricks  were 
carried  up  to  the  houses  beforehand.  These 
swine  of  Hindus!  We  shall  be  gutting  kine  in 
their  temples  to-night! " 

Ta^ia  after  ta^ia,  some  burning,  others  torn 
to  pieces,  hurried  past  us  and  the  mob  with 
them,  howling,  shrieking,  and  striking  at  the 
house  doors  in  their  flight.  At  last  we  saw  the 
reason  of  the  rush.  Hugonin,  the  Assistant  Dis- 
trict Superintendent  of  Police,  a  boy  of  twenty, 
had  got  together  thirty  constables  and  was  forc- 
ing the  crowd  through  the  streets.     His  old  grey 


320  Indian  Tales 

Police-horse  showed  no  sign  of  uneasiness  as  it 
was  spurred  breast-on  into  the  crowd,  and  the 
long  dog-whip  with  which  he  had  armed  him- 
self was  never  still. 

"  They  know  we  haven't  enough  Police  to  hold 
'em,"  he  cried  as  he  passed  me,  mopping  a  cut  on 
his  face.  "  They  know  we  haven't!  Aren't  any 
of  the  men  from  the  Club  coming  down  to  help? 
Get  on,  you  sons  of  burned  fathers!"  The  dog- 
whip  cracked  across  the  writhing  backs,  and  the 
constables  smote  afresh  with  baton  and  gun-butt. 
With  these  passed  the  lights  and  the  shouting, 
and  Wall  Dad  began  to  swear  under  his  breath. 
From  Fort  Amara  shot  up  a  single  rocket ;  then 
two  side  by  side.     It  was  the  signal  for  troops. 

Petitt,  the  Deputy  Commissioner,  covered  with 
dust  and  sweat,  but  calm  and  gently  smiling, 
cantered  up  the  clean-swept  street  in  rear  of  the 
main  bodv  of  the  rioters.  "No  one  killed  yet," 
he  shouted.  "  I'll  keep  'em  on  the  run  till  dawn! 
Don't  let  'em  halt,  Hugonin!  Trot  em  about  till 
the  troops  come." 

The  science  of  the  defence  lay  solely  in  keeping 
the  mob  on  the  move.  If  they  had  breathing- 
space  they  would  halt  and  fire  a  house,  and  then 
the  work  of  restoring  order  would  be  more  diffi- 
cult, to  say  the  least  of  it.  Flames  have  the  same 
effect  on  a  crowd  as  blood  has  on  a  wild  beast. 

Word  had  reached  the  Club  and  men  in  even- 


On  the  City  [Vail  321 

ing-dress  were  beginning  to  show  themselves 
and  lend  a  hand  in  heading  off  and  breaking  up 
the  shouting  masses  with  stirrup-leathers,  whips, 
or  chance-found  staves.  They  were  not  very 
often  attacked,  for  the  rioters  had  sense  enough 
to  know  that  the  death  of  a  European  would  not 
mean  one  hanging  but  many,  and  possibly  the 
appearance  of  the  thrice-dreaded  Artillery.  The 
clamor  in  the  City  redoubled.  The  Hindus  had 
descended  into  the  streets  in  real  earnest  and  ere 
long  the  mob  returned.  It  was  a  strange  sight. 
There  were  no  tafias — only  their  riven  platforms 
—and  there  were  no  Police.  Here  and  there  a 
City  dignitary,  Hindu  or  Muhammadan,  was 
vainly  imploring  his  co-religionists  to  keep  quiet 
and  behave  themselves — advice  for  which  his 
white  beard  was  pulled.  Then  a  native  officer  of 
Police,  unhorsed  but  still  using  his  spurs  with 
effect,  would  be  borne  along,  warning  all  the 
crowd  of  the  danger  of  insulting  the  Govern- 
ment. Everywhere  men  struck  aimlessly  with 
sticks,  grasping  each  other  by  the  throat,  howl- 
ing and  foaming  with  rage,  or  beat  v/ith  their 
bare  hands  on  the  doors  of  the  ho'.ises. 

"■  It  is  a  lucky  thing  that  they  are  fighting  with 
natural  weapons,"  1  said  to  Wall  Dad,  "else  we 
should  have  half  the  City  killed." 

I  turned  as  I  spoke  and  looked  at  his  face.  His 
nostrils  were  distended,  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and 


322  Indian  Tales 

he  was  smiting  himself  softly  on  the  breast. 
The  crowd  poured  by  with  renewed  riot— a  gang 
of  Musalmans  hard-pressed  by  some  hundred 
Hindu  fanatics.  Wali  Dad  left  my  side  with  an 
oath,  and  shouting:  '' Ya  Hasan!  Ya  Hus- 
sain  !  "  plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  fight  where 
1  lost  sight  of  him. 

1  fled  by  a  side  alley  to  the  Padshahi  Gate 
where  I  found  Wali  Dad's  house,  and  thence  rode 
to  the  Fort.  Once  outside  the  City  wall,  the  tu- 
mult sank  to  a  dull  roar,  very  impressive  under 
the  stars  and  reflecting  great  credit  on  the  fifty 
thousand  angry  able-bodied  men  who  were  mak- 
ing it.  The  troops  who,  at  the  Deputy  Commis- 
sioner's instance,  had  been  ordered  to  rendezvous 
quietly  near  the  Fort,  showed  no  signs  of  being 
impressed.  Two  companies  of  Native  Infantry, 
a  squadron  of  Native  Cavalry  and  a  company  of 
British  Infantry  were  kicking  their  heels  in  the 
shadow  of  the  East  face,  waiting  for  orders  to 
march  in.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  they  were  all 
pleased,  unholily  pleased,  at  the  chance  of  what 
they  called  "a  little  fun."  The  senior  officers,  to 
be  sure,  grumbled  at  having  been  kept  out  of 
bed,  and  the  English  troops  pretended  to  be 
sulky,  but  there  was  joy  in  the  hearts  of  all  the 
subalterns,  and  whispers  ran  up  and  down  the 
line :  "No  ball-cartridge — what  a  beastly  shame ! " 
"D'you  think  the  beggars  will  really  stand  up  to 


On  the  City  Wall  323 

us?"  "'Hope  I  shall  meet  my  money-Iendet 
there.  I  owe  him  more  than  I  can  afford." 
"Oh,  they  won't  let  us  even  unsheathe  swords." 
"Hurrah!  Up  goes  the  fourth  rocket.  Fall  in, 
there! " 

The  Garrison  Artillery,  who  to  the  last  cher- 
ished a  wild  hope  that  they  might  be  allowed  to 
bombard  the  City  at  a  hundred  yards'  range, 
lined  the  parapet  above  the  East  gateway  and 
cheered  themselves  hoarse  as  the  British  Infantry 
doubled  along  the  road  to  the  Main  Gate  of  the 
City.  The  Cavalry  cantered  on  to  the  Padshahi 
Gate,  and  the  Native  Infantry  marched  slowly  to 
the  Gate  of  the  Butchers.  The  surprise  was  in- 
tended to  be  of  a  distinctly  unpleasant  nature, 
and  to  come  on  top  of  the  defeat  of  the  Police 
who  had  been  just  able  to  keep  the  Muham- 
madans  from  firing  the  houses  of  a  few  leading 
Hindus.  The  bulk  of  the  riot  lay  in  the  north 
and  northwest  wards.  The  east  and  southeast 
were  by  this  time  dark  and  silent,  and  1  rode 
hastily  to  Lalun's  house  for  I  wished  to  tell  her  to 
send  some  one  in  search  of  Wall  Dad.  The 
house  was  unlighted,  but  the  door  was  open, 
and  1  climbed  upstairs  in  the  darkness.  One 
small  lamp  in  the  white  room  showed  Lalun  and 
her  maid  leaning  half  out  of  the  window,  breath- 
ing heavily  and  evidently  pulling  at  something 
that  refused  to  come. 


324  Indian  Tales 

"Thou  art  late — very  late,"  gasped  Lalun, with- 
out turning  her  head.  "Help  us  now,  O  Fool, 
if  thou  hast  not  spent  thy  strength  howling 
among  the  taiias.  Pull!  Nasiban  and  I  can  do 
no  more!  O  Sahib,  is  it  you  ?  The  Hindus  have 
been  hunting  an  old  Muhammadan  round  the 
Ditch  with  clubs.  If  they  tind  him  again  they 
will  kill  him.     Help  us  to  pull  him  up." 

I  put  my  hands  to  the  long  red  silk  waist-cloth 
that  was  hanging  out  of  the  window,  and  we 
three  pulled  and  pulled  with  all  the  strength  at 
our  command.  There  was  something  very 
heavy  at  the  end,  and  it  swore  in  an  unknown 
tongue  as  it  kicked  against  the  City  v/all. 

"Pull,  oh,  pull!"  said  Lalun,  at  the  last.  A 
pair  of  brown  hands  grasped  the  window-sill 
and  a  venerable  Muhammadan  tumbled  upon  the 
floor,  very  much  out  of  breath.  His  jaws  were 
tied  up,  his  turban  had  fallen  over  one  eye,  and 
he  was  dusty  and  angry. 

Lalun  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  an  instant 
and  said  something  about  Wall  Dad  that  1  could 
not  catch. 

Then,  to  my  extreme  gratification,  she  threw 
her  arms  round  my  neck  and  murmured  pretty 
things.  I  was  in  no  haste  to  stop  her;  and 
Nasiban,  being  a  handmaiden  of  tact,  turned  to 
the  big  jewel-chest  that  stands  in  the  corner  of 
the  white  room  and  rummaged  among  the  con- 


On  the  City  Wall  325 

tents.  The  Muhammadan  sat  on  the  floor  and 
glared. 

"One  service  more,  Sahib,  since  thou  hast 
come  so  opportunely,"  said  Lalun.  "Wilt  thou"' 
' — it  is  very  nice  to  be  thou-ed  by  Lalun — "  take 
this  old  man  across  the  City — the  troops  are 
everywhere,  and  they  might  hurt  him  for  he  is 
old — to  the  Kumharsen  Gate.^  There  I  think  he 
may  find  a  carriage  to  take  him  to  his  house.  He 
is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  thou  art — more  than  a 
friend — therefore  1  ask  this." 

Nasiban  bent  over  the  old  man,  tucked  some- 
thing into  his  belt,  and  1  raised  him  up,  and  led 
him  into  the  streets.  In  crossing  from  the  east  to 
the  west  of  the  City  there  was  no  chance  of 
avoiding  the  troops  and  the  crowd.  Long  before 
I  reached  the  Gully  of  the  Horsemen  I  heard  the 
shouts  of  the  British  infantry  crying  cheeringly: 
"  Hutt,  ye  beggars!  Hutt,  ye  devils!  Getalong! 
Go  forward,  there!  "  Then  followed  the  ringing 
of  rifle-butts  and  shrieks  of  pain.  The  troops 
were  banging  the  bare  toes  of  the  mob  with 
their  gun-butts — for  not  a  bayonet  had  been 
fixed.  My  companion  mumbled  and  jabbered  as 
we  walked  on  until  we  were  carried  back  by  the 
crowd  and  had  to  force  our  way  to  the  troops.  I 
caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  felt  a  bangle  there 
— the  iron  bangle  of  the  Sikhs — but  I  had  no 
suspicions,  for  Lalun  had  only  ten  minutes  before 


326  Indian  Tales 

put  her  arms  round  me.  Thrice  we  were  carried 
back  by  the  crowd,  and  when  we  made  our  way 
past  the  British  Infantry  it  was  to  meet  the  Sikh 
Cavalry  driving  another  mob  before  them  with 
the  butts  of  their  lances. 

"What  are  these  dogs?"  said  the  old  man, 

"Sikhs  of  the  Cavalry,  Father,"  1  said,  and  we 
edged  our  way  up  the  line  of  horses  two  abreast 
and  found  the  Deputy  Commissioner,  his  helmet 
smashed  on  his  head,  surrounded  by  a  knot  of 
men  who  had  come  down  from  the  Club  as 
amateur  constables  and  had  helped  the  Police 
mightily. 

"We'll  keep  'em  on  the  run  till  dawn,"  said 
Petitt.     "  Who's  your  villainous  friend  }  " 

I  had  only  time  to  say:  "The  Protection  of 
the  Strharf"  when  a  fresh  crowd  flying  before 
the  Native  Infantry  carried  us  a  hundred  yards 
nearer  to  the  Kumharsen  Gate,  and  Petitt  was 
swept  away  like  a  shadow. 

"I  do  not  know — I  cannot  see — this  is  all  new 
to  me!  "  moaned  my  companion.  "How  many 
troops  are  there  in  the  City  ?" 

"Perhaps  five  hundred,"  I  said. 

"A  lakh  of  men  beaten  by  five  hundred — and 
Sikhs  among  them!  Surely,  surely,  I  am  an  old 
man,  but — the  Kumharsen  Gate  is  new.  Who 
pulled  down  the  stone  lions  ?  Where  is  the 
conduit  ?    Sahib,  1  am  a  very  old  man,  and,  alas. 


On  the  City  Wall  327 

I — I  cannot  stand."  He  dropped  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Kumharsen  Gate  where  there  was  no  dis- 
turbance. A  fat  gentleman  wearing  gold  pince- 
nei  came  out  of  the  darkness. 

"You  are  most  kind  to  bring  my  old  friend," 
he  said,  suavely.  "  He  is  a  landholder  of  Akala. 
He  should  not  be  in  a  big  City  when  there  is 
religious  excitement.  But  I  have  a  carriage 
here.  You  are  quite  truly  kind.  Will  you  help 
me  to  put  him  into  the  carriage  ?  It  is  very 
late." 

We  bundled  the  old  man  into  a  hired  victoria 
that  stood  close  to  the  gate,  and  I  turned  back  to 
the  house  on  the  City  wall.  The  troops  were 
driving  the  people  to  and  fro,  while  the  Police 
shouted,  ' '  To  your  houses !  Get  to  your  houses !  " 
and  the  dog-whip  of  the  Assistant  District  Super- 
intendent cracked  remorselessly.  Terror-stricken 
bunnias  clung  to  the  stirrups  of  the  cavalry,  cry- 
ing that  their  houses  had  been  robbed  (which 
was  a  lie),  and  the  burly  Sikh  horsemen  patted 
them  on  the  shoulder,  and  bade  them  return  to 
those  houses  lest  a  worse  thing  should  happen. 
Parties  of  five  or  six  British  soldiers,  joining 
arms,  swept  down  the  side-gullies,  their  rifles  on 
their  backs,  stamping,  with  shouting  and  song, 
upon  the  toes  of  Hindu  and  Musalman.  Never 
was  religious  enthusiasm  more  systematically 
squashed;  and  never  were  poor  breakers  of  the 


328  Indian  Tales 

peace  more  utterly  weary  and  footsore.  They 
were  routed  out  of  holes  and  corners,  from  be- 
hind well-pillars  and  byres,  and  bidden  to  go  to 
their  houses.  If  they  had  no  houses  to  go  to,  so 
much  the  worse  for  their  toes. 

On  returning  to  Lalun's  door  I  stumbled  over  a 
man  at  the  threshold.  He  was  sobbing  hysteric- 
ally and  his  arms  flapped  like  the  wings  of  a 
goose.  It  was  Wall  Dad,  Agnostic  and  Unbe- 
liever, shoeless,  turbanless,  and  frothing  at  the 
mouth,  the  flesh  on  his  chest  bruised  and  bleed- 
ing from  the  vehemence  with  which  he  had 
smitten  himself.  A  broken  torch-handle  lay  by 
his  side,  and  his  quivering  lips  murmured,  "  Ya 
Hasan  !  Ya  Hussain  !  "  as  1  stooped  over  him. 
I  pushed  him  a  few  steps  up  the  staircase,  threw 
a  pebble  at  Lalun's  City  window  and  hurried 
home. 

Most  of  the  streets  were  very  still,  and  the  cold 
wind  that  comes  before  the  dawn  whistled  down 
them.  In  the  centre  of  the  Square  of  the  Mosque 
a  man  was  bending  over  a  corpse.  The  skull 
had  been  smashed  in  by  gun-butt  or  bamboo- 
stave. 

"It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die  for 
the  people,"  said  Petitt,  grimly,  raising  the  shape- 
less head.  "These  brutes  were  beginning  to 
show  their  teeth  too  much." 

And  from  afar  we  could  hear  the  soldiers  sing- 


On  the  City  Wall  ^29 


ing  "Two  Lovely  Black  Eyes," as  they  drove  the 
remnant  of  the  rioters  within  doors. 


Of  course  you  can  guess  what  happened  ?  I 
was  not  so  clever.  When  the  news  went  abroad 
that  Khem  Singh  had  escaped  from  the  Fort,  I 
did  not,  since  I  was  then  living  this  story,  not 
writing  it,  connect  myself,  or  Lalun,  or  the  fat 
gentleman  of  the  gold  pince-ne:(^,  with  his  disap- 
pearance. Nor  did  it  strike  me  that  Wall  Dad 
was  the  man  who  should  have  convoyed  him 
across  the  City,  or  that  Lalun's  arms  round  my 
neck  were  put  there  to  hide  the  money  that 
Nasiban  gave  to  Kehm  Singh,  and  that  Lalun  had 
used  me  and  my  white  face  as  even  a  better  safe- 
guard than  Wall  Dad  who  proved  himself  so  un- 
trustworthy. All  that  I  knew  at  the  time  was 
that,  when  Fort  Amara  was  taken  up  with  the 
riots,  Khem  Singh  profited  by  the  confusion  to 
get  away,  and  that  his  two  Sikh  guards  also 
escaped. 

But  later  on  I  received  full  enlightenment;  and 
so  did  Khem  Singh.  He  fled  to  those  who  knew 
him  in  the  old  days,  but  many  of  them  were  dead 
and  more  were  changed,  and  all  knew  something 
of  the  Wrath  of  the  Government.  He  went  to 
the  young  men,  but  the  glamour  of  his  name  had 
passed  away,  and  they  were  entering  native  regi- 


330  Indian  '/ales 

ments  of  Government  offices,  and  Khem  Singh 
could  give  them  neither  pension,  decorations, 
nor  influence — nothing  but  a  glorious  death  with 
their  backs  to  the  mouth  of  a  gun.  He  wrote 
letters  and  made  promises,  and  the  letters  fell 
into  bad  hands,  and  a  wholly  insignificant  sub- 
ordinate officer  of  Police  tracked  them  down  and 
gained  promotion  thereby.  Moreover,  Khem 
Singh  was  old,  and  anise-seed  brandy  was 
scarce,  and  he  had  left  his  silver  cooking-pots  in 
Fort  Amara  with  his  nice  warm  bedding,  and  the 
gentleman  with  the  gold  pince-nei  was  told  by 
those  who  had  employed  him  that  Khem  Singh 
as  a  popular  leader  was  not  worth  the  money 
paid. 

"Great  is  the  mercy  of  these  fools  of  Eng- 
lish!" said  Khem  Singh  when  the  situation  v/as 
put  before  him.  "  I  will  go  back  to  Fort  Amara 
of  my  own  free  will  and  gain  honor.  Give  me 
good  clothes  to  return  in." 

So,  at  his  own  time,  Khem  Singh  knocked  at 
the  wicket-gate  of  the  Fort  and  walked  to  the 
Captain  and  the  Subaltern,  who  were  nearly 
grey-headed  on  account  of  correspondence  that 
daily  arrived  from  Simla  marked  "  Private." 

"  1  have  come  back.  Captain  Sahib,"  said  Khem 
Singh.  "  Put  no  more  guards  over  me.  It  is  no 
good  out  yonder." 

A  week  later  1  saw  him  for  the  first  time  to  my 


On  the  City  Wall  331 

knowledge,  and  he  made  as  though  there  were 
an  understanding  between  us. 

"It  was  well  done,  Sahib,"  said  he,  "and 
greatly  I  admired  your  astuteness  in  thus  boldly 
facing  the  troops  when  1,  whom  they  would 
have  doubtless  torn  to  pieces,  was  with  you. 
Now  there  is  a  man  in  Fort  Ooltagarh  whom  a 
bold  man  could  with  ease  help  to  escape.  This 
is  the  position  of  the  Fort  as  1  draw  it  on  the 
sand  "  — 

But  I  was  thinking  how  I  had  become  Lalun  s 
Vizier  after  all. 


THE  BROKEN-LINK  HANDICAP 

While  the  snaffle  holds,  or  the  long-neck  stings, 
While  the  big  beam  tilts,  or  the  last  bell  rings, 
While  horses  are  horses  to  train  and  to  race, 
Then  women  and  wine  take  a  second  place 

For  me — for  me  — 

While  a  short  "  ten-three  " 
Has  a  field  to  squander  or  fence  to  face ! 

— Song  of  the  G,  R. 

THERE  are  more  ways  of  running  a  norse  lo 
suit  your  book  than  pulling  his  head  off  in 
the  straight.  Some  men  forget  this.  Under- 
stand clearly  that  all  racing  is  rotten — as  every- 
thing connected  with  losing  money  must  be.  In 
India,  in  addition  to  its  inherent  rottenness,  it  has 
the  merit  of  being  two-thirds  sham;  looking 
pretty  on  paper  only.  Every  one  knows  every 
one  else  far  too  well  for  business  purposes. 
How  on  earth  can  you  rack  and  harry  and  post  a 
man  for  his  losings,  when  you  are  fond  of  his 
wife,  and  live  in  the  same  Station  with  him  .^ 
He  says,  "On  the  Monday  following,"  "I  can't 
settle  just  yet."  You  say,  "  All  right,  old  man," 
and  think  yourself  lucky  if  you  pull  off  nine  hun- 
dred out  of  a  two-thousand-rupee  debt.  Any 
way  you  look  at  it,  Indian  racing  is  immoral,  and 
332 


The  Broken-Link  Handicap  353 

expensively  immoral.  Which  is  much  worse. 
If  a  man  wants  your  money,  he  ought  to  ask  for 
it,  or  send  round  a  subscription-list,  instead  of 
juggling  about  the  country,  with  an  Australian 
larrikin;  a  "  brumby,"  with  as  much  breed  as  the 
boy;  a  brace  of  chiiiuars  in  gold-laced  caps; 
three  or  four  ekka-pomes  with  hogged  manes, 
and  a  switch-tailed  demirep  of  a  mare  called 
Arab  because  she  has  a  kink  in  her  flag.  Racing 
leads  to  the  shrojf  quicker  than  anything  else. 
But  if  you  have  no  conscience  and  no  sentiments, 
and  good  hands,  and  some  knowledge  of  pace, 
and  ten  years'  experience  of  horses,  and  several 
thousand  rupees  a  month,  I  believe  that  you  can 
occasionally  contrive  to  pay  your  shoeing-bills. 

Did  you  ever  know  Shackles — b.  w.  g.,  15.  i^ 
— coarse,  loose,  mule-like  ears — barrel  as  long  as 
a  gatepost — tough  as  a  telegraph-wire — and  the 
queerest  brute  that  ever  looked  through  a  bridle .? 
He  was  of  no  brand,  being  one  of  an  ear-nicked 
mob  taken  into  the  Bucephalus  at  ^"4:108.,  a 
head  to  make  up  freight,  and  sold  raw  and  out  of 
condition  at  Calcutta  for  Rs.275.  People  who 
lost  money  on  him  called  him  a  "  brumby";  but 
if  ever  any  horse  had  Harpoon's  shoulders  and 
The  Gin's  temper.  Shackles  was  that  horse. 
Two  miles  was  his  own  particular  distance.  He 
trained  himself,  ran  himself,  and  rode  himself; 
and,  if  his  jockey  insulted  him  by  giving  him 


334  Indian   Tales 

hints,  he  shut  up  at  once  and  bucked  the  boy  off. 
He  objected  to  dictation.  Two  or  three  of  his 
owners  did  not  understand  this,  and  lost  money 
in  consequence.  At  last  he  was  bought  by  a 
man  who  discovered  that,  if  a  race  was  to  be 
won,  Shackles,  and  Shackles  only,  would  win  it 
in  his  own  way,  so  long  as  his  jockey  sat  still. 
This  man  had  a  riding-boy  called  Brunt — a  lad 
from  Perth,  West  Australia — and  he  taught 
Brunt,  with  a  trainer's  whip,  the  hardest  thing  a 
jock  can  learn — to  sit  still,  to  sit  still,  and  to  keep 
on  sitting  still.  When  Brunt  fairly  grasped  this 
truth.  Shackles  devastated  the  country.  No 
weight  could  stop  him  at  his  own  distance;  and 
the  fame  of  Shackles  spread  from  Ajmir  in  the 
South,  to  Chedputter  in  the  North.  There  was  no 
horse  like  Shackles,  so  long  as  he  was  allowed 
to  do  his  work  in  his  own  way.  But  he  was 
beaten  in  the  end;  and  the  story  of  his  fall  is 
enough  to  make  angels  weep. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  Chedputter  race- 
course, just  before  the  turn  into  the  straight,  the 
track  passes  close  to  a  couple  of  old  brick- 
mounds  enclosing  a  funnel-shaped  hollow.  The 
big  end  of  the  funnel  is  not  six  feet  from  the 
railings  on  the  ofT-side.  The  astounding  pecul- 
iarity of  the  course  is  that,  if  you  stand  at  one 
particular  place,  about  half  a  mile  away,  inside 
the  course,  and  speak  at  ordmary  pitch,  your 


The  Broken-Link  Handicap  ^^^ 

voice  just  hits  the  funnel  of  the  brick-mounds 
and  makes  a  curious  whining  echo  there.  A 
man  discovered  this  one  morning  by  accident 
while  out  training  with  a  friend.  He  marked 
the  place  to  stand  and  speak  from  with  a  couple 
of  bricks,  and  he  kept  his  knowledge  to  himself. 
Every  peculiarity  of  a  course  is  worth  remember- 
ing in  a  country  where  rats  play  the  mischief 
with  the  elephant-litter,  and  Stewards  build 
jumps  to  suit  their  own  stables.  This  man  ran  a 
very  fairish  country-bred,  a  long,  racking  high 
mare  with  the  temper  of  a  fiend,  and  the  paces 
of  an  airy  wandering  seraph — a  drifty,  glidy 
stretch.  The  mare  was,  as  a  delicate  tribute  to 
Mrs.  Reiver,  called  "The  Lady  Regula  Baddun" 
— or  for  short,  Regula  Baddun. 

Shackles'  jockey.  Brunt,  was  a  quite  well-be- 
haved boy,  but  his  nerve  had  been  shaken.  He 
began  his  career  by  riding  jump-races  in  Mel- 
bourne, where  a  few  Stewards  want  lynching, 
and  was  one  of  the  jockeys  who  came  through 
the  awful  butchery — perhaps  you  will  recollect 
it — of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate.  The  walls  were 
colonial  ramparts — logs  of  jarrah  spiked  into 
masonry — with  wings  as  strong  as  Church  but- 
tresses. Once  in  his  stride,  a  horse  had  to  jump 
or  fall.  He  couldn't  run  out.  In  the  Maribyr- 
nong Plate,  twelve  horses  were  jammed  at  the 
second  wall.     Red  Hat,  leading,   fell  this  side, 


336  Indian   Tales 

and  threw  out  The  Gled,  and  the  ruck  came  up 
behind  and  the  space  between  wing  and  wing 
was  one  struggling,  screaming,  kicking  shambles. 
Four  jockeys  were  taken  out  dead;  three  were 
very  badly  hurt,  and  Brunt  was  among  the  three. 
He  told  the  story  of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate 
sometimes;  and  when  he  described  how  Whalley 
on  Red  Hat,  said,  as  the  mare  fell  under  him — 
"God  ha'  mercy,  I'm  done  for!"  and  how,  next 
instant,  Sithee  There  and  White  Otter  had 
crushed  the  life  out  of  poor  Whalley,  and  the 
dust  hid  a  small  hell  of  men  and  horses,  no  one 
marveled  that  Brunt  had  dropped  jump-races 
and  Australia  together.  Regula  Baddun's  owner 
knew  that  story  by  heart.  Brunt  never  varied  it 
in  the  telling.     He  had  no  education. 

Shackles  came  to  the  Chedputter  Autumn  races 
one  year,  and  his  owner  walked  about  insulting 
the  sportsmen  of  Chedputter  generally,  till  they 
went  to  the  Honorary  Secretary  in  a  body  and 
said,  "Appoint  handicappers,  and  arrange  a  race 
which  shall  break  Shackles  and  humble  the 
pride  of  his  owner."  The  Districts  rose  against 
Shackles  and  sent  up  of  their  best;  Ousel,  who 
was  supposed  to  be  able  to  do  his  mile  in  1-S3; 
Petard,  the  stud-bred,  trained  by  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment who  knew  how  to  train;  Gringalet.  the 
ewe-Iamb  of  the  7sth;  Bobolink,  the  pride  of 
Peshawar;  and  many  others. 


The  Broken-Link  Handicap  337 

They  called  that  race  The  Broken-Link  Handi- 
cap, because  it  was  to  smash  Shackles;  and  the 
Handicappers  piled  on  the  weights,  and  the  Fund 
gave  eight  hundred  rupees,  and  the  distance  was 
"round  the  course  for  all  horses."  Shackles' 
owner  said,  "  You  can  arrange  the  race  with  re- 
gard to  Shackles  only.  So  long  as  you  don't 
bury  him  under  weight-cloths,  I  don't  mind." 
Regula  Baddun's  owner  said,  "I  throw  in  my 
mare  to  fret  Ousel.  Six  furlongs  is  Regula's  dis- 
tance, and  she  will  then  lie  down  and  die.  So 
also  will  Ousel,  for  his  jockey  doesn't  under- 
stand a  v/aiting  race."  Now,  this  was  a  lie,  for 
Regula  had  been  in  work  for  two  months  at 
Dehra,  and  her  chances  were  good,  always  sup- 
posing that  Shackles  broke  a  blood-vessel — or 
Brunt  moved  on  him. 

The  plunging  in  the  lotteries  was  fine.  They 
filled  eight  thousand-rupee  lotteries  on  the 
Broken-Link  Handicap,  and  the  account  in  the 
Pioneer  said  that  "favoritism  was  divided."  !n 
plain  English,  the  various  contingents  were  wild 
on  their  respective  horses;  for  the  Handicappers 
had  done  their  work  well.  The  Honorary  Secre- 
tary shouted  himself  hoarse  through  the  din;  and 
the  smoke  of  the  cheroots  was  like  the  smoke, 
and  the  rattling  of  the  dice-boxes  like  the  rattle 
of  small-arm  fire. 

Ten    horses  started — very  level — and   Regula 


338  Indian  Tales 

Baddun's  owner  cantered  out  on  his  hack  to  a 
place  inside  the  circle  of  the  course,  where  two 
brfcks  had  been  thrown.  He  faced  toward  the 
brick-mounds  at  the  lower  end  of  the  course  and 
waited. 

The  story  of  the  running  is  in  the  Pioneer.  At 
the  end  of  the  first  mile,  Shackles  crept  out  of 
the  ruck,  well  on  the  outside,  ready  to  get  round 
the  turn,  lay  hold  of  the  bit  and  spin  up  the 
straight  before  the  others  knew  he  had  got 
away.  Brunt  was  sitting  still,  perfectly  happy, 
listening  to  the  "drum-drum-drum"  of  the 
hoofs  behind,  and  knowing  that,  in  about 
twenty  strides,  Shackles  would  draw  one  deep 
breath  and  go  up  the  last  half-mile  like  the  "  Fly- 
ing Dutchman."  As  Shackles  went  short  to  take 
the  turn  and  came  abreast  of  the  brick-mound. 
Brunt  heard,  above  the  noise  of  the  wind  in  his 
ears,  a  whining,  wailing  voice  on  the  offside, 
saying — "God  ha'  mercy,  I'm  done  for!"  In 
one  stride,  Brunt  saw  the  whole  seething  smash 
of  the  Maribyrnong  Plate  before  him,  started  in 
his  saddle  and  gave  a  yell  of  terror.  The  start 
brought  the  heels  into  Shackles'  side,  and  the 
scream  hurt  Shackles'  feelings.  He  couldn't  stop 
dead;  but  he  put  out  his  feet  and  slid  along  for 
fifty  yards,  and  then,  very  gravely  and  judicially, 
bucked  off  Brunt — a  shaking,  terror-stricken 
lump,  while  Res^ula  Baddun  made  a  neck-and- 


The  Broken-Link  Handicap  339 

neck  race  with  Bobolink  up  the  straight,  and 
won  by  a  short  head — Petard  a  bad  third. 
Shackles'  owner,  in  the  Stand,  tried  to  think 
that  his  field-glasses  had  gone  wrong.  Regula 
Baddun's  owner,  waiting  by  the  two  bricks,  gave 
one  deep  sigh  of  relief,  and  cantered  back  to  the 
Stand.  He  had  won,  in  lotteries  and  bets,  about 
fifteen  thousand. 

It  was  a  Broken-Link  Handicap  with  a  venge- 
ance. It  broke  nearly  all  the  men  concerned, 
and  nearly  broke  the  heart  of  Shackles*  owner. 
He  went  down  to  interview  Brunt.  The  boy 
lay,  livid  and  gasping  with  fright,  where  he  had 
tumbled  off.  The  sin  of  losing  the  race  never 
seemed  to  strike  him.  All  he  knew  was  that 
Whalley  had  "called"  him,  that  the  "call"  was 
a  warning;  and,  were  he  cut  in  two  for  it,  he 
would  never  get  up  again.  His  nerve  had  gone 
altogether,  and  he  only  asked  his  master  to  give 
him  a  good  thrashing,  and  let  him  go.  He  was 
fit  for  nothing,  he  said.  He  got  his  dismissal,  and 
crept  up  to  the  paddock,  white  as  chalk,  with  blue 
lips,  his  knees  giving  way  under  him.  People 
said  nasty  things  in  the  paddock;  but  Brunt  never 
heeded.  He  changed  into  tweeds,  took  his  stick 
and  went  down  the  road,  still  shaking  with  fright, 
and  muttering  over  and  over  again — "God  ha' 
mercy,  I'm  done  for !  "  To  the  best  of  my  knowl- 
edge and  belief  he  spoke  the  truth. 


340  Indian  Tale% 

So  now  you  know  how  the  Broken-Link  Hand- 
icap was  run  and  won.  Of  course  you  don't  be- 
lieve it.  You  would  credit  anything  about  Rus- 
sia's designs  on  India,  or  the  recommendations 
of  the  Currency  Commission;  but  a  little  bit  of 
sober  fact  is  more  than  you  can  stand. 


ON   GREENHOW   HILL 

To  Love's  low  voice  she  lent  a  careless  ear; 

Her  hand  within  his  rosy  fingers  lay, 

A  chilling  weight.     She  would  not  turn  or  heai' ; 

But  with  averted  face  went  on  her  way. 

But  when  pale  Death,  all  featureless  and  griui. 

Lifted  his  bony  hand,  and  beckoning 

Held  out  his  cypress-wreath,  she  followed  him, 

And  Love  was  left  forlorn  and  wondering, 

That  she  who  for  his  bidding  would  not  stay, 

At  Death's  first  whisper  rose  and  went  away. 

Rivals, 

i^f^HE,  Ahmed  Din!  Shafii  Ulla  a  hoof 
V_y  Bahadur  Khan,  where  are  you  ?  Come 
out  of  the  tents,  as  I  have  done,  and  fight  against 
the  English.  Don't  kill  your  own  kin!  Come 
out  to  me! " 

The  deserter  from  a  native  corps  was  crawling 
round  the  outskirts  of  the  camp,  firing  at  inter- 
vals, and  shouting  invitations  to  his  old  comrades. 
Misled  by  the  rain  and  the  darkness,  he  came  to 
the  English  wing  of  the  camp,  and  with  his  yelp- 
ing and  rifle-practice  disturbed  the  men.  They 
had  been  making  roads  all  day,  and  were  tired. 

Ortheris     was     sleeping     at     Learoyd's    feet. 
"Wot's    all   that.^"   "he  said   thickly.     Learoyd 
341 


342  Indian  Tales 

snored,  and  a  Snider  bullet  ripped  its  way 
through  the  tent  wail.  The  men  swore.  "It's 
that  bioomin'  deserter  from  the  Aurangabadis," 
said  Ortheris.  "Git  up,  some  one,  an'  tell  'im 
'e's  come  to  the  wrong  shop." 

"Go  to  sleep,  little  man,"  said  Mulvaney,  who 
was  steaming  nearest  the  door.  "I  can't  arise 
and  expaytiate  with  him.  'Tis  rainin'  entrenchin' 
tools  outside." 

"Tain't  because  you  bioomin'  can't.  It's 
'cause  you  bioomin'  won't,  ye  long,  limp,  lousy, 
lazy  beggar,  you.     'Ark  to  'im  'owlin' !  " 

"  Wot's  the  good  of  argifying.?  Put  a  bullet 
into  the  swine!  'E's  keepin'  us  awake!"  said 
another  voice. 

A  subaltern  shouted  angrily,  and  a  dripping 
sentry  whined  from  the  darkness  — 

"'Tain't  no  good,  sir.  I  can't  see  'im.  'E's 
'idin'  somewhere  down  'ill." 

Ortheris  tumbled  out  of  his  blanket.  "Shall  I 
try  to  get  'im,  sir?"  said  he. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer.  "  Lie  down.  I  won't 
have  the  whole  camp  shooting  all  round  the 
clock.     Tell  him  to  go  and  pot  his  friends." 

Ortheris  considered  for  a  moment.  Then, 
putting  his  head  under  the  tent  wall,  he  called, 
as  a  'bus  conductor  calls  in  a  bloi.k,  "'Igher  up, 
there!    'Igher  up!" 

The  men  laughed,  and  the  laughter  was  carried 


On  Greenhow  Hill  343 

down  wind  to  the  deserter,  who,  hearing  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake,  went  off  to  worry  his  own 
regiment  half  a  mile  away.  He  was  received 
with  shots;  the  Aurangabadis  were  very  angry 
with  him  for  disgracing  their  colors. 

"An'  that's  all  right,"  said  Ortheris,  withdraw- 
ing his  head  as  he  heard  the  hiccough  of  the 
Sniders  in  the  distance.  "S'elp  me  Gawd,  tho', 
that  man's  not  fit  to  live— messin'  with  my 
beauty-sleep  this  way." 

"Go  out  and  shoot  him  in  the  morning,  then," 
said  the  subaltern  incautiously.  "  Silence  in  the 
tents  now.     Get  your  rest,  men." 

Ortheris  lay  down  with  a  happy  little  sigh, 
and  in  two  minutes  there  was  no  sound  except 
the  rain  on  the  canvas  and  the  all-embracing  and 
elemental  snoring  of  Learoyd. 

The  camp  lay  on  a  bare  ridge  of  the  Himalayas, 
and  for  a  week  had  been  waiting  for  a  flying 
column  to  make  connection.  The  nightly  rounds 
of  the  deserter  and  his  friends  had  become  a 
nuisance. 

In  the  morning  the  men  dried  themselves  in 
hot  sunshine  and  cleaned  their  grimy  accoutre- 
ments. The  native  regiment  was  to  take  its  turn 
of  road-making  that  day  while  the  Old  Regiment 
loafed. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  lay  for  a  shot  at  that  man,"  said 
Ortheris,  when  he  had  finished  washing  out  his 


344  Indian   Tales 

rifle.  "'E  comes  up  the  watercourse  every 
evenin'  about  five  o'clock.  If  we  go  and  lie  out 
on  the  north  'ill  a  bit  this  afternoon  we'll  get  'im." 

"You're  a  bloodthirsty  little  mosquito,"  said 
Mulvaney,  blowing  blue  clouds  into  the  air. 
"  But  1  suppose  1  will  have  to  come  wid  you. 
Fwhere's  Jock.^" 

"Gone  out  with  the  Mixed  Pickles,  'cause  'e 
thinks  'isself  a  bloomin'  marksman,"  said  Orth- 
eris,  with  scorn. 

The  "Mixed  Pickles"  were  a  detachment  of 
picked  shots,  generally  employed  in  clearing 
spurs  of  hills  when  the  enemy  were  too  imperti- 
nent. This  taught  the  young  officers  how  to 
handle  men,  and  did  not  do  the  enemy  much 
harm,  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  strolled  out  of 
camp,  and  passed  the  Aurangabadis  going  to  their 
road-making. 

"You've  got  to  sweat  to-day,"  said  Ortheris, 
genially.  "  We're  going  to  get  your  man.  You 
didn't  knock  'im  out  last  night  by  any  chance, 
any  of  you.?" 

"No.  The  pig  went  away  mocking  us.  I 
had  one  shot  at  him,"  said  a  private.  "  He's  my 
cousin,  and  /  ought  to  have  cleared  our  dishonor. 
But  good  luck  to  you." 

They  went  cautiously  to  the  north  hill,  Ortheris 
leading,  because,  as  he  explained,  "this  is  a  long- 
range  show,  an'  I've  got  to  do  it."     His  was  an 


On  Greenhow  Hill  345 

almost  passionate  devotion  to  his  rifle,  which,  by 
barrack-room  report,  he  was  supposed  to  kiss 
every  night  before  turning  in.  Charges  and 
scuffles  he  held  in  contempt,  and,  when  they 
were  inevitable,  slipped  between  Muivaney  and 
Learoyd,  bidding  them  to  fight  for  his  skin  as 
well  as  their  own.  They  never  failed  him.  He 
trotted  along,  questing  like  a  hound  on  a  broken 
trail,  through  the  wood  of  the  north  hill.  At  last 
he  was  satisfied,  and  threw  himself  down  on  the 
soft  pine-needle  slope  that  commanded  a  clear 
view  of  the  watercourse  and  a  brown,  bare  hill- 
side beyond  it.  The  trees  made  a  scented  dark- 
ness in  which  an  army  corps  could  have  hidden 
from  the  sun-glare  without. 

'"Ere's  the  tail  o'  the  wood,"  said  Ortheris. 
"'E's  got  to  come  up  the  watercourse,  *cause  it 
gives  'im  cover.  We'll  lay  'ere.  'Tain't  not  arf 
so  bloomin'  dusty  neither." 

He  buried  his  nose  in  a  clump  of  scentless 
white  violets.  No  one  had  come  to  tell  the 
flowers  that  the  season  of  their  strength  was  long 
past,  and  they  had  bloomed  merrily  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  pines. 

"This  is  something  like,"  he  said,  luxuriously. 
"Wot  a  'evinly  clear  drop  for  a  bullet  acrost! 
How  much  d'you  make  it,  Muivaney?" 

"Seven  hunder.  Maybe  a  trifle  less,  bekaze 
the  air's  so  thin." 


346  Indian  rales 

Wop  !  Wop  !  Wop  !  went  a  volley  of  musketry 
on  the  rear  face  of  the  north  hill. 

"Curse  them  Mixed  Pickles  firin'  at  nothin'! 
They'll  scare  arf  the  country." 

"Thry  a  sightin'  shot  in  the  middle  of  the 
row,"  said  Mulvaney,  the  man  of  many  wiles. 
"  There's  a  red  rock  yonder  he'll  be  sure  to  pass. 
Quick!" 

Ortheris  ran  his  sight  up  to  six  hundred  yards 
and  fired.  The  bullet  threw  up  a  feather  of  dust 
by  a  clump  of  gentians  at  the  base  of  the  rock. 

"Good  enough!"  said  Ortheris,  snapping  the 
scale  down.  "  You  snick  your  sights  to  mine  or 
a  little  lower.  You're  always  firin'  high.  But 
remember,  first  shot  to  me.  O  Lordy!  but  it's  a 
lovely  afternoon." 

The  noise  of  the  firing  grew  louder,  and  there 
was  a  tramping  of  men  in  the  wood.  The  two 
lay  very  quiet,  for  they  knew  that  the  British 
soldier  is  desperately  prone  to  fire  at  anything 
that  moves  or  calls.  Then  Learoyd  appeared,  his 
tunic  ripped  across  the  breast  by  a  bullet,  look- 
ing ashamed  of  himself.  He  flung  down  on  the 
pine-needles,  breathing  in  snorts. 

"  One  o'  them  damned  gardeners  o'  th' 
Pickles,"  said  he,  fingering  the  rent.  "  Firin' to 
th'  right  flank,  when  he  knowed  1  was  there.  If  1 
knew  who  he  was  I'd  'a'  rippen  the  hide  ofTan 
him.     Look  at  ma  tunic!  " 


On  Greenhoiv  Hill  347 

"That's  the  spishil  trustability  av  a  marksman. 
Train  him  to  hit  a  fly  wid  a  stiddy  rest  at  seven 
hunder,  an'  he  loose  on  anythin'  he  sees  or  hears 
up  to  th'  mile.  You're  well  out  av  that  fancy- 
firin'  gang,  Jock.     Stay  here." 

"  Bin  firin'  at  the  bloomin'  wind  in  the  bloomin' 
treetops,"  said  Ortheris,  with  a  chuckle.  "I'll 
show  you  some  firin'  later  on." 

They  wallowed  in  the  pine-needles,  and  the 
sun  warmed  them  where  they  lay.  The  Mixed 
Pickles  ceased  firing,  and  returned  to  camp,  and 
left  the  wood  to  a  few  scared  apes.  The  water- 
course lifted  up  its  voice  in  the  silence,  and 
talked  foolishly  to  the  rocks.  Now  and  again 
the  dull  thump  of  a  blasting  charge  three  miles 
away  told  that  the  Aurangabadis  were  in  diffi- 
culties with  their  road-making.  The  men  smiled 
as  they  listened  and  lay  still,  soaking  in  the  warm 
leisure.  Presently  Learoyd,  between  the  whiffs 
of  his  pipe  — 

"Seems  queer — about  'im  yonder — desertin'  at 
all." 

"'E'll  be  a  bloomin'  side  queerer  when  I've 
done  with  'im,"  said  Ortheris.  They  were  talk- 
ing in  whispers,  for  the  stillness  of  the  wood  and 
the  desire  of  slaughter  lay  heavy  upon  them. 

"1  make  no  doubt  he  had  his  reasons  for  de- 
sertin' ;  but,  my  faith !  I  make  less  doubt  ivry  man 
has  good  reason  for  killin'  him,"  said  Mulvaney. 


34^  Indian  Tales 

"  Happen  there  was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi'  it. 
Men  do  more  than  more  for  th'  sake  of  a  lass." 

"They  make  most  av  us  'list.  They've  no 
manner  av  right  to  make  us  desert." 

"Ah;  they  make  us  'list,  or  their  fathers  do," 
said  Learoyd,  softly,  his  helmet  over  his  eyes. 

Ortheris's  brows  contracted  savagely.  He  was 
watching  the  valley.  "  If  it's  a  girl  I'll  shoot  the 
beggar  twice  over,  an'  second  time  for  bein'  a 
fool.  You're  blasted  sentimental  all  of  a  sudden^ 
Thinkin'  o'  your  last  near  shave  ?" 

"Nay,  lad;  ah  was  but  thinkin'  o"  what  had 
happened." 

"An'  fwhat  has  happened,  ye  lumberin'  child 
av  calamity,  that  you're  lowing  like  a  cow-calf  at 
the  back  av  the  pasture,  an'  suggestin'  invidious 
excuses  for  the  man  Stanley's  goin'  to  kill.  Ye'll 
have  to  wait  another  hour  yet,  little  man.  Spit 
it  out,  Jock,  an'  bellow  melojus  to  the  moon.  It 
takes  an  earthquake  or  a  bullet  graze  to  fetch 
aught  out  av  you.  Discourse,  Don  Juan!  The 
a-moors  av  Lotharius  Learoyd!  Stanley,  kape  a 
rowlin'  rig'mental  eye  on  the  valley." 

"It's  along  o'  yon  hill  there,"  said  Learoyd, 
watching  the  bare  sub-Himalayan  spur  that  re- 
minded him  of  his  Yorkshire  moors.  He  was 
speaking  more  to  himself  than  his  fellows. 
"Ay,"  said  he,  "  Rumbolds  Moor  stands  up 
ower  Skipton  town,  an'  Greenhow  Hill  stands  up 


On  Greenhow  Hill  349 

ower  Pately  Brig.  I  reckon  you've  never  heeard 
tell  o'  Greenhow  Hill,  but  yon  bit  o'  bare  stuff  if 
there  was  nobbut  a  white  road  windin'  is  like  ut; 
strangely  like.  Moors  an'  moors  an'  moors,  wi' 
never  a  tree  for  shelter,  an'  grey  houses  wi'  flag- 
stone rooves,  and  pewits  cryin',  an'  a  wind- 
hover goin'  to  and  fro  just  like  these  kites.  And 
cold!  A  wind  that  cuts  you  like  a  knife.  You 
could  tell  Greenhow  Hill  folk  by  the  red-apple 
color  0'  their  cheeks  an'  nose  tips,  and  their  blue 
eyes,  driven  into  pin-points  by  the  wind.  Miners 
mostly,  burrowin'  for  lead  i'  th'  hillsides,  followin' 
the  trail  of  th'  ore  vein  same  as  a  field-rat.  It  was 
the  roughest  minin'  I  ever  seen.  Yo'd  come  on 
a  bit  o'  creakin'  v/ood  windlass  like  a  well-head, 
an'  you  was  let  down  i'  th'  bight  of  a  rope, 
fendin'  yoursen  off  the  side  wi'  one  hand,  carryin' 
a  candle  stuck  in  a  lump  o'  clay  with  t'other,  an' 
clickin'  hold  of  a  rope  with  t'other  hand." 

"An'  that's  three  of  them,"  said  Mulvaney. 
"  Must  be  a  good  climate  in  those  parts." 

Learoyd  took  no  heed. 

"An'  then  yo'  came  to  a  level,  where  you 
crept  on  your  hands  and  knees  through  a  mile  o' 
windin'  drift,  an'  you  come  out  into  a  cave-place 
as  big  as  Leeds  Townhall,  with  a  engine  pumpin' 
water  from  workin's  'at  went  deeper  still.  It's  a 
queer  country,  let  alone  minin',  for  the  hill  is  full 
of  those  natural  caves,  an'  the  rivers  an'  the  becks 


350 


Indian  Tales 


drops  into  what  they  call  pot-holes,  an'  come  out 
again  miles  away.  " 

"Wot  was  you  doin'  there  ?"  said  Ortheris. 

"I  was  a  young  chap  then,  an'  mostly  went 
wi'  'osses,  leadin'  coal  and  lead  ore;  but  at  th' 
time  I'm  tellin'  on  I  was  drivin'  the  waggon-team 
i'  th'  big  sumph.  I  didn't  belong  to  that  country- 
side by  rights.  I  went  there  because  of  a  little 
difference  at  home,  an'  at  fust  I  took  up  wi'  a 
rough  lot.  One  night  we'd  been  drinkin',  an'  I 
must  ha'  hed  more  than  1  could  stand,  or  happen 
th'  ale  was  none  so  good.  Though  i'  them  days, 
By  for  God,  I  never  seed  bad  ale."  He  flung  his 
arms  over  his  head,  and  gripped  a  vast  handful 
of  white  violets.  "Nah,"  said  he,  "  I  never  seed 
the  ale  I  could  not  drink,  the  bacca  I  could  not 
smoke,  nor  the  lass  I  could  not  kiss.  Well,  we 
mun  have  a  race  home,  the  lot  on  us.  I  lost  all 
th'  others,  an'  when  I  was  climbin'  ower  one  of 
them  walls  built  o'  loose  stones,  I  comes  down 
into  the  ditch,  stones  and  all,  an'  broke  my  arm. 
Not  as  I  knawed  much  about  it,  for  I  fell  on  th' 
back  of  my  head,  an'  was  knocked  stupid  like. 
An'  when  I  come  to  mysen  it  were  mornin',  an'  I 
were  iyin'  on  the  settle  i'  Jesse  Roantree's  house- 
place,  an'  'Liza  Roantree  was  settin'  sewin'.  1 
ached  all  ower,  and  my  mouth  were  like  a  lime- 
kiln. She  gave  me  a  drink  out  of  a  china  mug 
wi'  gold  letters — '  A  Present  from  Leeds  ' — as  I 


On  Greenhow  Hill  351 

looked  at  many  and  many  a  time  at  after.  '  Yo're 
to  lie  still  while  Dr.  Warbottom  comes,  because 
your  arm's  broken,  and  father  has  sent  a  lad  to 
fetch  him.  He  found  yo'  when  he  was  goin'  to 
work,  an'  carried  you  here  on  his  back,'  sez  she. 
'  Oa! '  sez  I ;  an'  1  shet  my  eyes,  for  I  felt  ashamed 
o'  mysen.  '  Father's  gone  to  his  work  these 
three  hours,  an'  he  said  he'  tell  'em  to  get  some- 
body to  drive  the  tram.'  The  clock  ticked,  an'  a 
bee  comed  in  the  house,  an'  they  rung  i'  my  head 
like  mill-wheels.  An'  she  give  me  another  drink 
an'  settled  the  pillow.  '  Eh,  but  yo're  young  to 
be  getten  drunk  an'  such  like,  but  yo'  won't  do 
it  again,  will  yo' ? ' — 'Noa,'  sez  I,  '1  wouldn't  if 
she'd  not  but  stop  they  mill-wheels  clatterin'.'  " 

"Faith,  it's  a  good  thing  to  be  nursed  by  a 
woman  when  you're  sick!"  said  Mulvaney. 
"  Dir'  cheap  at  the  price  av  twenty  broken 
heads." 

Ortheris  turned  to  frown  across  the  valley.  He 
had  not  been  nursed  by  many  women  in  his  life. 

"An'  then  Dr.  Warbottom  comes  ridin'  up,  an' 
Jesse  Roantree  along  with  'im.  He  was  a  high- 
larned  doctor,  but  he  talked  wi'  poor  folk  same 
as  theirsens.  '  What's  ta  bin  agaate  on  naa  ? '  he 
sings  out.  '  Brekkin'  tha  thick  head?'  An' he 
felt  me  all  ovver.  '  That's  none  broken.  Tha' 
nobbut  knocked  a  bit  sillier  than  ordinary,  an' 
that's  daaft  eneaf.'     An'  soa  he  went  on,  callin' 


352  Indian   Tales 

me  all  the  names  he  could  think  on,  but  settin' 
my  arm,  wi'  Jesse's  help,  as  careful  as  could  be. 
'  Yo'  mun  let  the  big  oaf  bide  here  a  bit,  Jesse,' 
he  says,  when  he  hed  strapped  me  up  an'  given 
me  a  dose  o'  physic;  '  an'  you  an'  'Liza  will  tend 
him,  though  he's  scarcelins  worth  the  trouble. 
An'  tha'll  lose  tha  work,' sez  he,  'an'  tha'll  be 
upon  th'  Sick  Club  for  a  couple  o'  months  an' 
more.     Doesn't  tha  think  tha's  a  fool  ? '  " 

"  But  whin  was  a  young  man,  high  or  low,  the 
other  av  a  fool,  I'd  like  to  know  ? "  said  Mul- 
vaney.  "  Sure,  folly's  the  only  safe  way  to  wis- 
dom, for  I've  thried  it." 

"Wisdom!"  grinned  Ortheris,  scanning  his 
comrades  with  uplifted  chin.  "  You're  bloomin' 
Solomons,  you  two,  ain't  you  }" 

Learoyd  went  calmly  on,  with  a  steady  eye 
like  an  ox  chewing  the  cud. 

"And  that  was  how  I  come  to  know  'Liza 
Roantree.  There's  some  tunes  as  she  used  to 
sing — aw,  she  were  always  singin' — that  fetches 
Greenhow  Hill  before  my  eyes  as  fair  as  yon 
brow  across  there.  And  she  would  learn  me  to 
sing  bass,  an'  I  was  to  go  to  th'  chapel  wi'  'em 
where  Jesse  and  she  led  the  singin',  th'  old  man 
playin'  the  fiddle.  He  was  a  strange  chap,  old 
Jesse,  fair  mad  wi'  music,  an'  he  made  me  prom- 
ise to  learn  the  big  fiddle  when  my  arm  was  bet- 
ter.    It  belonged  to  him.  and  it  stood  up  in  a  big 


On  Greenhow  Hill  353 

case  alongside  o'  th'  eight-day  clock,  but  Willie 
Satterthwaite,  as  played  it  in  the  chapel,  had  get- 
ten  deaf  as  a  door-post,  and  it  vexed  Jesse,  as  he 
had  to  rap  him  ower  his  head  wi'  th'  fiddle-stick 
to  make  him  give  ower  sawin'  at  th'  right  time. 

"  But  there  was  a  black  drop  in  it  all,  an'  it 
was  a  man  in  a  black  coat  that  brought  it.  When 
th'  primitive  Methodist  preacher  came  to  Green- 
how,  he  would  always  stop  wi'  Jesse  Roantree, 
an'  he  laid  hold  of  me  from  th'  beginning.  It 
seemed  I  wor  a  soul  to  be  saved,  and  he  meaned 
to  do  it.  At  th'  same  time  I  jealoused  'at  he 
were  keen  o'  savin'  'Liza  Roantree's  soul  as  well, 
and  I  could  ha'  killed  him  many  a  time.  An' 
this  went  on  till  one  day  I  broke  out,  an'  bor- 
rowed th'  brass  for  a  drink  from  'Liza,  After 
fower  days  I  come  back,  wi'  my  tail  between  my 
legs,  just  to  see  'Liza  again.  But  Jesse  were  at 
home  an'  th'  preacher — th'  Reverend  Amos  Bar- 
raclough,  'Liza  said  naught,  but  a  bit  0'  red 
come  into  her  face  as  were  white  of  a  regular 
thing.  Says  Jesse,  tryin'  his  best  to  be  civil, 
'Nay,  lad,  it's  like  this.  You've  getten  to  choose 
which  way  it's  goin'  to  be.  I'll  ha'  nobody  across 
ma  doorstep  as  goes  a-drinkin',  an'  borrows  my 
lass's  money  to  spend  i'  their  drink.  Ho'd  tha 
tongue,  'Liza,'  sez  he,  when  she  wanted  to  put 
in  a  word  'at  I  were  welcome  to  th'  brass,  and 
she  were  none  afraid  that  1  wouldn't  pay  it  back. 


554  Indian   Tales 

Then  the  Reverend  cuts  in,  seein'  as  Jesse  were 
losin'  his  temper,  an'  they  fair  beat  me  among 
them.  But  it  were  'Liza,  as  looked  an'  said 
naught,  as  did  more  than  either  o'  their  tongues, 
an'  soa  I  concluded  to  get  converted." 

"Fwhat?"  shouted  Mulvaney.  Then,  check- 
ing himself,  he  said  softly,  "Let  be!  Let  be! 
Sure  the  Blessed  Virgin  is  the  mother  of  all  reli- 
gion an'  most  women;  an'  there's  a  dale  av  piety 
in  a  girl  if  the  men  would  only  let  ut  stay  there. 
I'd  ha'  been  converted  myself  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

"Nay,  but,"  pursued  Learoyd  with  a  blush, 
"\  meaned  it." 

Ortheris  laughed  as  loudly  as  he  dared,  having 
regard  to  his  business  at  the  time. 

"  Ay,  Ortheris,  you  may  laugh,  but  you  didn't 
know  yon  preacher  Barraclough — a  little  white- 
faced  chap,  wi'  a  voice  as  'ud  wile  a  bird  off  an 
a  bush,  and  a  way  o*  layin'  hold  of  folks  as  made 
them  think  they'd  never  had  a  live  man  for  a 
friend  before.  You  never  saw  him,  an' — an' — 
you  never  seed  'Liza  Roantree — never  seed  'Liza 
Roantree.  .  .  .  Happen  it  was  as  much  'Liza 
as  th'  preacher  and  her  father,  but  anyways  they 
all  meaned  it,  an'  I  was  fair  shamed  o'  mysen,  an' 
so  I  become  what  they  call  a  changed  character. 
And  when  I  think  on,  it's  hard  to  believe  as  yon 
chap  going  to  prayermeetin's,  chapel,  and  class- 


On  Greenhow  Hill  355 

meetin's  were  me.  But  I  nevet  had  naught  to 
say  for  mysen,  though  there  was  a  deal  o'  shoutin', 
and  old  Sammy  Strother,  as  were  almost  clemmed 
to  death  and  doubled  up  with  the  rheumatics, 
would  sing  out,  'Joyful!  Joyful!'  and  'at  it  were 
better  to  go  up  to  heaven  in  a  coal-basket  than 
down  to  hell  i'  a  coach  an'  six.  And  he  would 
put  his  poor  old  claw  on  my  shoulder,  sayin', 
'  Doesn't  tha  feel  it,  tha  great  lump  .^  Doesn't  tha 
feel  it }'  An'  sometimes  1  thought  1  did,  and  then 
again  1  thought  1  didn't,  an'  how  was  that  ?  " 

"The  iverlastin'  nature  av  mankind,"  said  Mul- 
vaney.  "  An',  furthermore,  1  misdoubt  you 
were  built  for  the  Primitive  Methodians.  They're 
a  new  corps  anyways.  I  hold  by  the  Ould 
Church,  for  she's  the  mother  of  them  all — ay,  an' 
the  father,  too.  1  like  her  bekase  she's  most  re- 
markable regimental  in  her  fittings.  I  may  die 
in  Honolulu,  Nova  Zambra,  or  Cape  Cayenne, 
but  wherever  I  die,  me  bein'  fwhat  1  am,  an'  a 
priest  handy,  1  go  under  the  same  orders  an'  the 
same  words  an'  the  same  unction  as  tho'  the 
Pope  himself  come  down  from  the  roof  av  St. 
Peter's  to  see  me  off.  There's  neither  high  nor 
low,  nor  broad  nor  deep,  nor  betwixt  nor  be- 
tween wid  her,  an'  that's  what  1  like.  But  mark 
you.  she's  no  manner  av  Church  for  a  wake  man, 
bekaze  she  takes  the  body  and  the  soul  av  him, 
onless  he  has  his  proper  work  to  do.     I  remem- 


3  56  Indian  Tales 

ber  when  my  father  died  that  was  three  months 
comin'  to  his  grave;  begad  he'd  ha'  sold  the  she- 
been above  our  heads  for  ten  minutes'  quittance 
of  purgathory.  An'  he  did  all  he  could.  That's 
why  I  say  ut  takes  a  strong  man  to  deal  with  the 
Ould  Church,  an'  for  that  reason  you'll  find  so 
many  women  go  there.  An'  that  same's  a  co- 
nundrum." 

"  Wot's  the  use  o'  worritin'  'bout  these  things  ?" 
said  Ortheris.  "  You're  bound  to  find  all  out 
quicker  nor  you  want  to,  any'ow."  He  jerked 
the  cartridge  out  of  the  breech-block  into  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  "  Ere's  my  chaplain,"  he  said, 
and  made  the  venomous  black-headed  bullet  bow 
like  a  marionette.  "  'E's  goin'  to  teach  a  man  all 
about  which  is  which,  an'  wot's  true,  after  all, 
before  sundown.  But  wot  'appened  after  that, 
Jock.?" 

"There  was  one  thing  they  boggled  at,  and 
almost  shut  th'  gate  i'  my  face  for,  and  that  were 
my  dog  Blast,  th'  only  one  saved  out  o'  a  litter  o' 
pups  as  was  blowed  up  when  a  keg  o'  minin' 
powder  loosed  off  in  th'  storekeeper's  hut.  They 
liked  his  name  no  better  than  his  business,  which 
were  fightin'  every  dog  he  comed  across;  a  rare 
good  dog,  wi'  spots  o'  black  and  pink  on  his  face, 
one  ear  gone,  and  lame  o'  one  side  wi'  being 
driven  in  a  basket  through  an  iron  roof,  a  matter 
of  half  a  mile. 


On  Greenhow  Hill  357 

"They  said  I  mun  give  him  up  'cause  he  were 
worldly  and  low;  and  would  I  let  mysen  be  shut 
out  of  heaven  for  the  sake  on  a  dog?  'Nay,' 
says  I,  '  if  th'  door  isn't  wide  enough  for  th'  pair 
on  us,  we'll  stop  outside,  for  we'll  none  be  parted.' 
And  th'  preacher  spoke  up  for  Blast,  as  had  a 
likin'  for  him  from  th'  first — 1  reckon  that  was 
why  I  come  to  like  th'  preacher — and  wouldn't 
hear  o'  changin'  his  name  to  Bless,  as  some  o' 
them  wanted.  So  th'  pair  on  us  became  reg'lar 
chapel-members.  But  it's  hard  for  a  young  chap 
o'  my  build  to  cut  traces  from  the  world,  th' 
flesh,  an'  the  devil  all  uv  a  heap.  Yet  I  stuck  to 
it  for  a  long  time,  while  th'  lads  as  used  to  stand 
about  th'  town-end  an'  lean  ower  th'  bridge, 
spittin'  into  th'  beck  o'  a  Sunday,  would  call 
after  me,  'Sitha,  Learoyd,  when's  ta  bean  to 
preach,  'cause  we're  comin'  to  hear  tha.' — '  Ho'd 
tha  jaw.  He  hasn't  getten  th'  white  choaker  on 
ta  morn,'  another  lad  would  say,  and  1  had  to 
double  my  lists  hard  i'  th'  bottom  of  my  Sunday 
coat,  and  say  to  .mysen,  '  If  'twere  Monday  and 
I  warn't  a  member  o'  the  Primitive  Methodists, 
I'd  leather  all  th'  lot  of  yond'.'  That  was  th' 
hardest  of  all — to  know  that  I  could  fight  and  I 
mustn't  fight." 

Sympathetic  grunts  from  Mulvaney. 

"So  what  wi'  singin',  practicin',  and  class- 
meetin's,  and  th'  big  fiddle,  as  he  made  me  take 


358  Indian  Tales 

between  my  knees,  I  spent  a  deal  o'  time  i'  Jesse 
Roantree's  house-place.  But  often  as  I  was  there, 
th'  preacher  fared  to  me  to  go  oftener,  and  both 
th'  old  man  an'  th'  young  woman  were  pleased 
to  have  him.  He  lived  i'  Pately  Brig,  as  were  a 
goodish  step  off,  but  he  come.  He  come  all  the 
same.  I  liked  him  as  well  or  better  as  any  man 
I'd  ever  seen  i'  one  way,  and  yet  1  hated  him  wi' 
all  my  heart  i'  t'other,  and  we  watched  each 
other  like  cat  and  mouse,  but  civil  as  you  please, 
for  I  was  on  my  best  behavior,  and  he  was  that 
fair  and  open  that  I  was  bound  to  be  fair  with 
him.  Rare  good  company  he  was,  if  I  hadn't 
wanted  to  wring  his  diver  little  neck  half  of  the 
time.  Often  and  often  when  he  was  goin'  from 
Jesse's  I'd  set  him  a  bit  on  the  road." 

"See  'ini  'ome,  you  mean.?"  said  Ortheris. 

"  Ay.  It's  a  way  we  have  i'  Yorkshire  o'  seein' 
friends  off.  You  was  a  friend  as  1  didn't  want  to 
come  back,  and  he  didn't  want  me  to  come  back 
neither,  and  so  we'd  walk  together  toward 
Pately,  and  then  he'd  set  me  back  again,  and 
there  we'd  be  wal  two  o'clock  i'  the  mornin' 
settin'  each  other  to  an'  fro  like  a  blasted  pair  o' 
pendulums  twixt  hill  and  valley,  long  after  th' 
light  had  gone  out  i'  'Liza's  window,  as  both  on 
us  had  been  looking  at,  pretending  to  watch  the 
moon." 

"Ah!"  broke  in  Mulvaney,  "ye'd  no  chanst 


On  Greenhow  Hill  359 

against  the  maraudin'  psalm-singer.  They'll  take 
the  airs  an'  the  graces  instid  av  the  man  nine 
times  out  av  ten,  an'  they  only  find  the  blunder 
later — the  wimmen." 

' •  That's  just  where  yo're  wrong, "  said  Learoyd, 
reddening  under  the  freckled  tan  of  his  cheeks. 
"  1  was  th'  first  wi'  'Liza,  an'  yo'd  think  that  were 
enough.  But  th'  parson  were  a  steady-gaited 
sort  0'  chap,  and  Jesse  were  strong  0'  his  side, 
and  all  th'  women  i'  the  congregation  dinned  it 
to  'Liza  'at  she  were  fair  fond  to  take  up  wi'  a 
wastrel  ne'er-do-weel  like  me,  as  was  scarcelins 
respectable  an'  a  fighting  dog  at  his  heels.  It 
was  all  very  well  for  her  to  be  doing  me  good 
and  saving  my  soul,  but  she  must  mind  as  she 
didn't  do  heiself  harm.  They  talk  o'  rich  folk 
bein'  stuck  up  an'  genteel,  but  for  cast-iron  pride 
0'  respectability  there's  naught  like  poor  chapel 
folk.  It's  as  cold  as  th'  wind  o'  Greenhow  Hill — 
ay,  and  colder,  for  'twill  never  change.  And 
now  I  come  to  think  on  it,  one  at  strangest  things 
I  know  is  'at  they  couldn't  abide  th'  thought  o' 
soldiering.  There's  a  vast  o'  fightin'  i'  th'  Bible, 
and  there's  a  deal  of  Methodists  i'  th'  army;  but 
to  hear  chapel  folk  talk  yo'd  think  that  soldierin' 
were  next  door,  an'  t'other  side,  to  hangin'.  I' 
their  meetin's  all  their  talk  is  o'  fightin'.  When 
Sammy  Strother  were  stuck  for  summat  to  say  in 
his   prayers,   he'd  sing  out,  '  Th'  sword  o'  th' 


360  Indian  Tales 

Lord  and  o'  Gideon.'  They  were  alius  at  it  about 
puttin'  on  th'  whole  armor  0'  righteousness,  an' 
fightin'  the  good  fight  o'  faith.  And  then,  atop 
o'  't  all,  they  held  a  prayer-meetin'  ower  a  young 
chap  as  wanted  to  'list,  and  nearly  deafened  him, 
till  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  fair  ran  away.  And 
they'd  tell  tales  in  th'  Sunday-school  o'  bad  lads 
as  had  been  thumped  and  brayed  for  bird-nesting 
o'  Sundays  and  playin'  truant  o'  week  days,  and 
how  they  took  to  wrestlin',  dog-fightin",  rabbit- 
runnin',  and  drinkin',  till  at  last,  as  if  'twere  a 
hepitaph  on  a  gravestone,  they  damned  him 
across  th'  moors  wi',  'an'  then  he  went  and 
'listed  for  a  soldier,'  an'  they'd  all  fetch  a  deep 
breath,  and  throw  up  their  eyes  like  a  hen 
drinkin'." 

"  Fwhy  is  ut  ?"  said  Mulvaney,  bringing  down 
his  hand  on  his  thigh  with  a  crack.  "In  the 
name  av  God,  fwhy  is  ut  ?  I've  seen  ut,  tu. 
They  cheat  an'  they  swindle  an'  they  lie  an'  they 
slander,  an'  fifty  things  fifty  times  worse;  but  the 
last  an'  the  worst  by  their  reckonin'  is  to  serve 
the  Widdy  honest.  It's  like  the  talk  av  childer — 
seein'  things  all  round." 

"  Plucky  lot  of  fightin'  good  fights  of  whatser- 
name  they'd  do  if  we  didn't  see  they  had  a  quiet 
place  to  fight  in.  And  such  fightin'  as  theirs  is! 
Cats  on  the  tiles.  T'other  callin'  to  which  to 
come  on.     I'd  give  a  month's  pay  to  get  some  o' 


On  Greenhow  Hill  361 

them  broad-backed  beggars  in  London  sweatin' 
through  a  day's  road-makin'  an'  a  night's  rain. 
They'd  carry  on  a  deal  afterward — same  as  we're 
supposed  to  carry  on.  I've  bin  turned  out  of  a 
measly  arf-license  pub  down  Lambeth  way,  full 
o'  greasy  kebmen,  'fore  now,"  said  Ortheris  with 
an  oath. 

"Maybe  you  were  dhrunk,"  said  Mulvaney, 
soothingly. 

"Worse  nor  that.  The  Forders  were  drunk. 
/  was  wearin'  the  Queen's  uniform." 

"I'd  no  particular  thought  to  be  a  soldier  i' 
them  days,"  said  Learoyd,  still  keeping  his  eye  on 
the  bare  hill  opposite,  "but  this  sort  o'  talk  put  it 
i'  my  head.  They  was  so  good,  th'  chapel  folk, 
that  they  tumbled  ower  t'other  side.  But  1  stuck 
to  it  for  'Liza's  sake,  specially  as  she  was  learn- 
ing me  to  sing  the  bass  part  in  a  horotorio  as 
Jesse  were  gettin'  up.  She  sung  like  a  throstle 
hersen,  and  we  had  practicin's  night  after  night 
for  a  matter  of  three  months." 

"I  know  what  a  horotorio  is,"  said  Ortheris, 
pertly.  "It's  a  sort  of  chaplain's  sing-song^ 
words  aP  out  of  the  Bible,  and  hullabaloojah 
choruses." 

"Mv^st  Greenhow  Hill  folks  played  some  in- 
strument or  t'other,  an'  they  all  sung  so  you 
might  have  heard  them  miles  away,  and  they 
were  so  pleased  wi'  the  noise  they  made  they 


362  Indian  Tales 

didn't  fair  to  want  anybody  to  listen.  The 
preacher  sung  high  seconds  when  he  wasn't 
piayin'  the  flute,  an'  they  set  me,  as  hadn't  got 
far  with  big  fiddle,  again  Willie  Satterthwaite,  to 
jog  his  elbow  when  he  had  to  get  a'  gate  piayin'. 
Old  Jesse  was  happy  if  ever  a  man  was,  for  he 
were  th'  conductor  an'  th'  first  fiddle  an'  th' 
leadin'  singer,  beatin'  time  wi'  his  fiddle-stick, 
till  at  times  he'd  rap  with  it  on  the  table,  and  cry 
out.  'Now,  you  mun  all  stop;  it's  my  turn.' 
And  he'd  face  round  to  his  front,  fair  sweating 
wi'  pride,  to  sing  th'  tenor  solos.  But  he  were 
grandest  i'  th'  choruses,  waggin'  his  head,  fling- 
ing his  arms  round  like  a  windmill,  and  singin' 
hisself  black  in  the  face.  A  rare  singer  were 
Jesse. 

"  Yo'  see,  I  was  not  0'  much  account  wi'  'em 
all  exceptin'  to  'Liza  Roantree,  and  I  had  a  deal 
o'  time  settin'  quiet  at  meetings  and  horotorio 
practices  to  hearken  their  talk,  and  if  it  were 
strange  to  me  at  beginnin',  it  got  stranger  still  at 
after,  when  I  was  shut  on  it,  and  could  study 
what  it  meaned. 

"Just  after  th'  horotorios  come  off,  'Liza,  as 
had  alius  been  weakly  like,  was  took  very  bad. 
I  walked  Dr.  Warbottom's  horse  up  and  down  a 
deal  of  times  while  he  were  inside,  where  they 
wouldn't  let  me  go,  though  I  fair  ached  to  see 
her. 


On  Greenhow  Hill  363 

"  '  She'll  be  better  i'  noo,  lad — better  i'  noo,'  he 
used  to  say.  'Tha  mun  ha'  patience.'  Then 
they  said  if  I  was  quiet  I  might  go  in,  and  th' 
Reverend  Amos  Barraclough  used  to  read  to  her 
lyin'  propped  up  among  th'  pillows.  Then  she 
began  to  mend  a  bit,  and  they  let  me  carry  her 
on  to  th'  settle,  and  when  it  got  warm  again  she 
went  about  same  as  afore.  Th'  preacher  and  me 
and  Blast  was  a  deal  together  i'  them  days,  and  i' 
one  way  we  was  rare  good  comrades.  But  I 
could  ha'  stretched  him  time  and  again  with  a 
good  will.  I  mind  one  day  he  said  he  would 
like  to  go  down  into  th'  bowels  0'  th'  earth,  and 
see  how  th'  Lord  had  builded  th'  framework  o' 
th'  everlastin'  hills.  He  were  one  of  them  chaps 
as  had  a  gift  o'  sayin'  things.  They  rolled  off  the 
tip  of  his  clever  tongue,  same  as  Mulvaney  here, 
as  would  ha'  made  a  rare  good  preacher  if  he  had 
nobbut  given  his  mind  to  it.  I  lent  him  a  suit  o' 
miner's  kit  as  almost  buried  th'  little  man,  and 
his  white  face  down  i'  th'  coat-collar  and  hat- 
flap  looked  like  the  face  of  a  boggart,  and  he 
cowered  down  i'  th'  bottom  0'  the  waggon.  I 
was  drivin'  a  tram  as  led  up  a  bit  of  an  incline  up 
to  th'  cave  where  the  engine  was  pumpin',  and 
where  th'  ore  was  brought  up  and  put  into  th' 
waggons  as  went  down  o'  themselves,  me  put- 
tin'  th'  brake  on  and  th'  horses  a-trottin'  after. 
Long  as  it  was  daylight  we  were  good  friends. 


3^4  Indian  Tales 

but  when  we  got  fair  into  th'  dark,  and  could 
nobbut  see  th'  day  shinin'  at  the  hole  like  a  lamp 
at  a  street-end,  I  feeled  downright  wicked.  Ma 
religion  dropped  all  away  from  me  when  I  looked 
back  at  him  as  were  always  comin'  between  me 
and  'Liza,  The  talk  was  'at  they  were  to  be  wed 
when  she  got  better,  an'  I  couldn't  get  her  to  say 
yes  or  nay  to  it.  He  began  to  sing  a  hymn  in  his 
thin  voice,  and  I  came  out  wi'  a  chorus  that  was 
all  cussin'  an'  swearin'  at  my  horses,  an'  1  began 
to  know  how  I  hated  him.  He  were  such  a  little 
chap,  too.  1  could  drop  him  wi'  one  hand  down 
Garstang's  Copper-hole — a  place  where  th'  beck 
slithered  ower  th'  edge  on  a  rock,  and  fell  wi'  a 
bit  of  a  whisper  into  a  pit  as  no  rope  i'  Greenhow 
could  plump." 

Again  Learoyd  rooted  up  the  innocent  violets. 
"Ay,  he  should  see  th'  bowels  o'  th'  earth  an' 
never  naught  else.  1  could  take  him  a  mile  or 
two  along  th'  drift,  and  leave  him  wi'  his  candle 
doused  to  cry  hallelujah,  wi'  none  to  hear  him 
and  say  amen.  1  was  to  lead  him  down  th'  lad- 
der-way to  th'  drift  where  Jesse  Roantree  was 
workin',  and  why  shouldn't  he  slip  on  th'  ladder, 
wi'  my  feet  on  his  fingers  till  they  loosed  grip, 
and  I  put  him  down  wi'  my  heel  ?  If  I  went  fust 
down  th'  ladder  I  could  click  hold  on  him  and 
chuck  him  over  my  head,  so  as  he  should  go 
squshin'  down  the  shaft,  breakin'  his  bones  at 


On  Greenhow  Hill  05 

ev'ry  timberin'  as  Bill  Appleton  did  when  he  was 
fresh,  and  hadn't  a  bone  left  when  he  wrought 
to  th'  bottom,  Niver  a  blasted  leg  to  walk  from 
Pately.  Niver  an  arm  to  put  round  'Liza  Roan- 
tree's  waist.     Niver  no  more — niver  no  more." 

The  thick  lips  curled  back  over  the  yellow  teeth, 
and  that  flushed  face  was  not  pretty  to  look 
upon.  Mulvaney  nodded  sympathy,  and  Orthe- 
ris,  moved  by  his  comrade's  passion,  brought  up 
the  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  and  searched  the  hillside 
for  his  quarry,  muttering  ribaldry  about  a  spar- 
row, a  spout,  and  a  thunderstorm.  The  voice 
of  the  watercourse  supplied  the  necessary  small 
talk  till  Learoyd  picked  up  his  story. 

"  But  it's  none  so  easy  to  kill  a  man  like  yon. 
When  I'd  given  up  my  horses  to  th'  lad  as  took 
my  place  and  I  was  showin'  th'  preacher  th' 
workin's,  shoutin'  into  his  ear  across  th'  clang  o' 
th'  pumpin'  engines,  I  saw  he  were  afraid  o' 
naught;  and  when  the  lamplight  showed  his 
black  eyes,  I  could  feel  as  he  was  masterin'  me 
again.  I  were  no  better  nor  Blast  chained  up 
short  and  growlin'  i'  the  depths  of  him  v/hile  a 
strange  dog  went  safe  past. 

"  'Th'art  a  coward  and  a  fool,'  I  said  to  my- 
sen;  an'  I  wrestled  i'  my  mind  again'  him  till, 
when  we  come  to  Garstang's  Copper-hole,  1  laid 
hold  o'  the  preacher  and  lifted  him  up  over  my 
head  and  held  him  into  the  darkest  on  it.    '  Now, 


366  ,  Indian  Tales 

lad,'  1  says,  '  it's  to  be  one  or  t'other  on  us — thee 
or  me — for  'Liza  Roantree.  Why,  isn't  thee 
afraid  for  thysen  ?'  I  says,  for  he  were  still  i'  my 
arms  as  a  sack.  'Nay;  I'm  but  afraid  for  thee, 
my  poor  lad,  as  knows  naught,'  says  he.  I  set 
him  down  on  th'  edge,  an'  th'  beck  run  stiller, 
an'  there  was  no  more  buzzin'  in  my  head  like 
when  th'  bee  come  through  th'  window  o'  Jesse's 
house.     '  What  dost  tha  mean  }'  says  I. 

"  '  I've  often  thought  as  thou  ought  to  know,* 
says  he,  '  but  'twas  hard  to  tell  thee.  'Liza 
Roantree's  for  neither  on  us,  nor  for  nobody  o' 
this  earth.  Dr.  Warbottom  says— and  he  knows 
her,  and  her  mother  before  her — that  she  is  in  a 
decline,  and  she  cannot  live  six  months  longer. 
He's  known  it  for  many  a  day.  Steady,  John! 
Steady!'  says  he.  And  that  weak  little  man 
pulled  me  further  back  and  set  me  again'  him, 
and  talked  it  all  over  quiet  and  still,  me  turnin'  a 
bunch  o'  candles  in  my  hand,  and  counting  them 
ower  and  ower  again  as  I  listened.  A  deal  on  it 
were  th'  regular  preachin'  talk,  but  there  were  a 
vast  lot  as  made  me  begin  to  think  as  he  were 
more  of  a  man  than  I'd  ever  given  him  credit  for, 
till  I  were  cut  as  deep  for  him  as  I  were  for  mysen. 

"Six  candles  we  had,  and  we  crawled  and 
climbed  all  that  day  while  they  lasted,  and  I  said 
to  mysen,  "Liza  Roantree  hasn't  six  months  to 
live.'     And  when  we  came  into  th'  daylight  again 


On  Greenhow  Hill  367 

we  were  like  dead  men  to  look  at,  an'  Blast  come 
behind  us  without  so  much  as  waggin'  his  tail. 
When  I  saw  'Liza  again  she  looked  at  me  a 
minute  and  says,  '  Who's  telled  tha  ?  For  I  see 
tha  knows.'  And  she  tried  to  smile  as  she  kissed 
me,  and  I  fair  broke  down. 

"  Yo'  see,  I  was  a  young  chap  i'  them  days, 
and  had  seen  naught  o'  life,  let  alone  death,  as  is 
alius  a-waitin'.  She  telled  me  as  Dr.  Warbottom 
said  as  Greenhow  air  was  too  keen,  and  they 
were  goin'  to  Bradford,  to  Jesse's  brother  David, 
as  worked  i'  a  mill,  and  1  mun  hold  up  like  a 
man  and  a  Christian,  and  she'd  pray  for  me. 
Well,  and  they  went  away,  and  the  preacher  that 
same  back  end  o'  th'  year  were  appointed  to  an- 
other circuit,  as  they  call  it,  and  1  were  left  alone 
on  Greenhow  Hill. 

"  1  tried,  and  1  tried  hard,  to  stick  to  th'  chapel, 
but  'tweren't  th'  same  thing  at  after.  I  hadn't 
'Liza's  voice  to  follov/  i'  th'  singin',  nor  her  eyes 
a-shinin'  acrost  their  heads.  And  i'  th'  class- 
meetings  they  said  as  I  mun  have  some  experi- 
ences to  tell,  and  1  hadn't  a  word  to  say  for 
mysen. 

"  Blast  and  me  moped  a  good  deal,  and  happen 
we  didn't  behave  ourselves  over  well,  for  they 
dropped  us  and  wondered  however  they'd  come 
to  take  us  up.  I  can't  tell  how  we  got  through 
th'  time,  while  i'  th'  winter  1  gave  up  my  job  and 


368  Indian  Tales 

went  to  Bradford.  Old  Jesse  were  at  th'  door  o' 
th'  house,  in  a  long  street  o'  little  houses.  He'd 
been  sendin'  th'  children  'wa}'  as  were  clatterin' 
their  clogs  in  th'  causeway,  for  she  were  asleep. 

"'Is  it  thee  .^'  he  says;  '  but  you're  not  to  see 
her.  I'll  none  have  her  wakened  for  a  nowt  like 
thee.  She's  goin'  fast,  and  she  mun  go  in  peace. 
Thou'lt  never  be  good  for  naught  i'  th'  world, 
and  as  long  -as  thou  lives  thou'll  never  play  the 
big  fiddle.  Get  away,  lad,  get  away ! '  So  he 
shut  the  door  softly  i'  my  face. 

"Nobody  never  made  Jesse  my  master,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  he  was  about  right,  and  I  went 
away  into  the  town  and  knocked  up  against  a 
recruiting  sergeant.  The  old  tales  o'  th'  chapel 
folk  came  buzzin'  into  my  head.  I  was  to  get 
away,  and  this  were  th'  regular  road  for  the  likes 
o'  me.  1  'listed  there  and  then,  took  th'  Widow's 
shillin',  and  had  a  bunch  o'  ribbons  pinned  i'  my 
hat. 

"But  next  day  I  found  my  way  to  David 
Roantree's  door,  and  Jesse  came  to  open  it. 
Says  he,  '  Thou's  come  back  again  v/i'  th'  devil's 
colors  flyin'— thy  true  colors,  as  I  always  telled 
thee.' 

"  But  I  begged  and  prayed  of  him  to  let  me  see 
her  nobbut  to  say  good-bye,  till  a  woman  calls 
down  th'  stairway,  '  She  says  John  Learoyd's  to 
come  up.'     Th'  old  man  shifts  aside  in  a  flash. 


On  Green  how  Hill  369 

and  lays  his  hand  on  my  arm,  quite  gentie  like. 
'But  thou'lt  be  quiet,  John,'  says  he,  'for  she's 
rare  and  weak.     Thou  was  alius  a  good  lad.' 

"  Her  eyes  were  all  alive  wi'  light,  and  her  hair 
was  thick  on  the  pillow  round  her,  but  her  cheeks 
were  thin — thin  to  frighten  a  man  that's  strong. 
'  Nay,  father,  yo  mayn't  say  th'  devil's  colors. 
Them  ribbons  is  pretty.'  An'  she  held  out  her 
hands  for  th'  hat,  an'  she  put  all  straight  as  a 
woman  will  wi'  ribbons.  '^Nay,  but  what 
they're  pretty,'  she  says.  '  Eh,  but  I'd  ha'  liked 
to  see  thee  i'  thy  red  coat,  John,  for  thou  was 
alius  my  own  lad — my  very  own  lad,  and  none 
else.' 

"She  lifted  up  her  arms,  and  they  come  round 
my  neck  i'  a  gentle  grip,  and  they  slacked  away, 
and  she  seemed  fainting.  '  Now  yo'  mun  get 
away,  lad,'  says  Jesse,  and  I  picked  up  my  hat 
and  1  came  downstairs. 

"  Th'  recruiting  sergeant  were  waitin'  for  me 
at  th'  corner  public-house.  '  You've  seen  your 
sweetheart  ? '  says  he.  '  Yes,  I've  seen  her,'  says 
I.  'Well,  we'll  have  a  quart  now,  and  you'll  do 
your  best  to  forget  her,'  says  he,  bein'  one  o' 
them  smart,  bustlin'  chaps.  'Ay,  sergeant,' says 
I.  'Forget  her.'  And  I've  been  forgettin'  her 
ever  since." 

He  threw  away  the  wilted  clump  of  white  vio- 
lets as  he  spoke.     Ortheris  suddenly  rose  to  his 


370  ■  Indian   Tales 

knees,  his  rifle  at  his  shoulder,  and  peered  across 
the  valley  in  the  clear  afternoon  light.  His  chin 
cuddled  the  stock,  and  there  was  a  twitching  of 
the  muscles  of  the  right  cheek  as  he  sighted; 
Private  Stanley  Ortheris  was  engaged  on  his  busi- 
ness. A  speck  of  white  crawled  up  the  water- 
course. 

"  See  that  beggar  ?    .     .     .     Got 'im." 

Seven  hundred  yards  away,  and  a  full  two 
hundred  down  the  hillside,  the  deserter  of  the 
Aurangabadis  pitched  forward,  rolled  down  a  red 
rock,  and  lay  very  still,  with  his  face  in  a  clump 
of  blue  gentians,  while  a  big  raven  flapped  out  of 
the  pine  wood  to  make  investigation. 

"That's  a  clean  shot,  little  man,"  said  Mul- 
vaney. 

Learoyd  thoughtfully  watched  the  smoke  clear 
away.  "  Happen  there  was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi* 
him,  too,"  said  he. 

Ortheris  did  not  reply.  He  was  staring  across 
the  valley,  with  the  smile  of  the  artist  who  looks 
on  the  completed  work. 


TO  BE  FILED  FOR  REFERENCE 

By  the  hoof  of  the  Wild  Goat  up-tossed 
From  the  Cliff  where  She  lay  in  the  Sun, 

Fell  the  Stone 
To  the  Tarn  where  the  daylight  is  lost; 
So  She  fell  from  the  light  of  the  Sun, 

And  alone. 

Now  the  fall  was  ordained  from  the  first, 
With  the  Goat  and  the  Cliff  and  the  Tarn, 

But  the  Stone 
Knows  only  Her  life  is  accursed, 
As  She  sinks  in  the  depths  of  the  Tarn, 

And  alone. 

Oh,  Thou  who  hast  builded  the  world! 
Oh,  Thou  who  hast  lighted  the  Sun! 
Oh,  Thou  who  hast  darkened  the  Tarn ! 

Judge  Thou 
The  sin  of  the  Stone  that  was  hurled 
By  the  Goat  from  the  light  of  the  Sun, 
As  She  sinks  in  the  mire  of  the  Tarn, 

Even  now — even  now — even  now ! 
— Fj'om  the  Unptiblis/ied  Papers  of  Mcintosh  Jellaludin. 


"S 


AY  is  it  dawn,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  Bower, 
Thou  whom  1  long  for,  who  longest  for 
me? 
Oh,  be  it  night — be  it" — 
371 


3/2  Indian  Tale% 

Here  he  fell  over  a  little  camel-colt  that  was 
sleeping  in  the  Serai  where  the  horse-traders  and 
the  best  of  the  blackguards  from  Central  Asia 
live;  and,  because  he  was  very  drunk  indeed  and 
the  night  was  dark,  he  could  not  rise  again  till  1 
helped  him.  That  was  the  beginning  of  my  ac- 
quaintance with  Mcintosh  Jellaludin.  When  a 
loafer,  and  drunk,  sings  "The  Song  of  the 
Bower,"  he  must  be  worth  cultivating.  He  got 
off  the  camel's  back  and  said,  rather  thickly,  "  I 
— 1 — I'm  a  bit  screwed,  but  a  dip  in  Loggerhead 
will  put  me  right  again;  and,  1  say,  have  you 
spoken  to  Symonds  about  the  mare's  knees.?" 

Now  Loggerhead  was  six  thousand  weary  miles 
away  from  us,  close  to  Mesopotamia,  where  you 
mustn't  fish  and  poaching  is  impossible,  and 
Charley  Symonds'  stable  a  half  mile  farther  across 
the  paddocks.  It  was  strange  to  hear  all  the  old 
names,  on  a  May  night,  among  the  horses  and 
camels  of  the  Sultan  Caravanserai.  Then  the  man 
seemed  to  remember  himself  and  sober  down  at 
the  same  time.  We  leaned  against  the  camel 
and  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the  Serai  where  a  lamp 
was  burning. 

"1  live  there,"  said  he,  "and  I  should  be  ex- 
tremely obliged  if  you  would  be  good  enough  to 
help  my  mutinous  feet  thither;  for  !  am  more 
than  usually  drunk — most — most  phenomenally 
tight.     But   not   in   respect  to   my  head.     '  My 


To  be  Filed  for  Reference  373 

brain  cries  out  against' — how  does  it  go  ?  But 
my  head  rides  on  the — rolls  on  the  dunghill  I 
should  have  said,  and  controls  the  qualm." 

I  helped  him  through  the  gangs  of  tethered 
horses  and  he  collapsed  on  the  edge  of  the  veranda 
in  front  of  the  line  of  native  quarters. 

"Thanks — a  thousand  thanks!  O  Moon  and 
little,  little  Stars!  To  think  that  a  man  should  so 
shamelessly  .  .  .  Infamous  liquor  too.  Ovid 
in  exile  drank  no  worse.  Better.  It  was  frozen. 
Alas!  I  had  no  ice.  Good-night.  I  would  in- 
troduce you  to  my  wife  were  1  sober — or  she  civ- 
ilized." 

A  native  woman  came  out  of  the  darkness  of 
the  room,  and  began  calling  the  man  names;  so 
I  went  aw.  j.  He  was  the  most  interesting  loafer 
that  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  for  a  long 
time;  and  later  on,  he  became  a  friend  of  mine. 
He  was  a  tall,  well-built,  fair  man,  fearfully 
shaken  with  drink,  and  he  looked  nearer  Hfty 
than  the  thirty-tive  which,  he  said,  was  his  real 
age.  When  a  man  begins  to  sink  in  India,  and 
is  not  sent  Home  by  his  friends  as  soon  as  may 
be,  he  falls  very  low  from  a  respectable  point  of 
view.  By  the  time  that  he  changes  his  creed, 
as  did  Mcintosh,  he  is  past  redemption. 

In  most  big  cities,  natives  will  tell  you  of  two 
or  three  Sahibs,  generally  low-caste,  who  have 
turned  Hindu  or  Mussulman,  and  who  li'^e  more 


374  Indian  Tales 

or  less  as  such.  But  it  is  not  often  that  you  can 
get  to  know  them.  As  Mchitosh  himself  used  to 
say,  "If  I  change  my  religion  for  my  stomach's 
sake,  1  do  not  seek  to  become  a  martyr  to  mis- 
sionaries, nor  am  1  anxious  for  notonety  " 

At  the  outset  of  acquaintance  Mcintosh  warned 
me.  "Remember  this.  I  am  not  an  object  for 
charity.  I  require  neither  your  money,  your  food, 
nor  your  cast-off  raiment.  I  am  that  rare  animal, 
a  self-supporting  drunkard.  If  you  choose,  I  will 
smoke  with  you,  for  the  tobacco  of  the  bazars 
does  not,  I  admit,  suit  my  palate;  and  I  will  bor- 
row any  books  which  you  may  not  specially 
value.  It  is  more  than  likely  that  I  shall  sell  them 
for  bottles  of  excessively  filthy  country  liquors. 
In  return,  you  shall  share  such  hospitality  as  my 
house  affords.  Here  is  a  charpoy  on  which  two 
can  sit,  and  it  is  possible  that  there  may,  from 
time  to  time,  be  food  in  that  platter.  Drink,  un- 
fortunately, you  will  find  on  the  premises  at  any 
hour:  and  thus  I  make  you  welcome  to  all  my 
poor  establishment." 

I  was  admitted  to  the  Mcintosh  household—! 
and  my  good  tobacco.  But  nothing  else.  Un- 
luckily, one  cannot  visit  a  loafer  in  the  Serai  by 
day.  Friends  buying  horses  would  not  under- 
stand it.  Consequently,  I  was  obliged  to  see  Mc- 
intosh after  dark.  He  laughed  at  this,  and  said 
simply,  "You  are  perfectly  right.     When  I  en- 


To  be  Filed  for  Reference  375 

joyed  a  position  in  society,  rather  higher  than 
yours,  I  should  have  done  exactly  the  same  thing. 
Good  heavens !  I  was  once  " — he  spoke  as  though 
he  had  fallen  from  the  Command  of  a  Regiment 
— "  an  Oxford  Man !  "  This  accounted  for  the  ref- 
erence to  Charley  Symonds'  stable. 

"  You,"  said  Mcintosh,  slowly,  "  have  not  had 
that  advantage;  but,  to  outward  appearance,  you 
do  not  seem  possessed  of  a  craving  for  strong 
drinks.  On  the  whole,  1  fancy  that  you  are  the 
luckier  of  the  two.  Yet  1  am  not  certain.  You 
are — forgive  my  saying  so  even  while  1  am  smok- 
ing your  excellent  tobacco — painfully  ignorant  of 
many  things." 

We  were  sitting  together  on  the  edge  of  his 
bedstead,  for  he  owned  no  chairs,  watching  the 
horses  being  watered  for  the  night,  while  the  na- 
tive woman  was  preparing  dinner.  I  did  not  like 
being  patronized  by  a  loafer,  but  I  was  his  guest 
for  the  time  being,  though  he  owned  only  one 
very  torn  alpaca-coat  and  a  pair  of  trousers  made 
out  of  gunny-bags.  He  took  the  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth,  and  went  on  judicially,  "All  things  con- 
sidered, I  doubt  whether  you  are  the  luckier.  I 
do  not  refer  to  your  extremely  limited  classical 
attainments,  or  your  excruciating  quantities,  but 
to  your  gross  ignorance  of  matters  more  imme- 
diately under  your  notice.  That,  for  instance," 
he  pointed  to  a  woman  cleaning  a  samovar  near 


376  Indian  Tales 

the  well  in  the  centre  of  the  Serai.  She  was  flick- 
ing the  water  out  of  the  spout  in  regular  cadenced 
jerks. 

"There  are  ways  and  ways  of  cleaning  sam- 
ovars. If  you  knew  why  she  was  doing  her 
work  in  that  particular  fashion,  you  would  know 
what  the  Spanish  Monk  meant  when  he  said  — 

I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp  — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate, 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp  — 

and  many  other  things  which  now  are  hidden 
from  your  eyes.  However,  Mrs.  Mcintosh  has 
prepared  dinner.  Let  us  come  and  eat  after  the 
fashion  of  the  people  of  the  country — of  whom, 
by  the  way,  you  know  nothing." 

The  native  woman  dipped  her  hand  in  the  dish 
with  us.  This  was  wrong.  The  wife  should 
always  wait  until  the  husband  has  eaten.  Mcin- 
tosh Jellaludin  apologized,  saying  — 

"It  is  an  English  prejudice  which  I  have  not 
been  able  to  overcome;  and  she  loves  me.  Why, 
I  have  never  been  able  to  understand.  I  fore- 
gathered with  her  at  Jullundur,  three  years  ago, 
and  she  has  remained  with  me  ever  since.  I  be- 
lieve her  to  be  moral,  and  know  her  to  be  skilled 
in  cookery." 

He  patted  the  woman's  head  as  he  sDoke.  and 


To  be  Filed  for  Reference  377 

she  cooed  softly.  She  was  not  pretty  to  look 
at. 

Mcintosh  never  told  me  what  position  he  had 
held  before  his  fall.  He  was,  when  sober,  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman.  When  drunk,  he  was 
rather  more  of  the  first  than  the  secc:id.  He  used 
to  get  drunk  about  once  a  week  for  two  dnys. 
On  those  occasions  the  native  woman  tended 
him  while  he  raved  in  all  tongues  except  his  own. 
One  day,  indeed,  he  began  reciting  AtalanUi  in 
Calydon,  and  went  through  it  to  the  end,  beat- 
ing time  to  the  swing  of  the  verse  with  a  bed- 
stead-leg. But  he  did  most  of  his  ravings  in 
Greek  or  German.  The  man's  mind  was  a  per- 
fect rag-bag  of  useless  things.  Once,  when  he 
was  beginning  to  get  sober,  he  told  me  that  I  was 
the  only  rational  being  in  the  Inferno  into  which 
he  had  descended — a  Virgil  in  the  Shades,  he 
said — and  that,  in  return  for  my  tobacco,  he 
would,  before  he  died,  give  me  the  materials  of  a 
new  Inferno  that  should  make  me  greater  than 
Dante.  Then  he  fell  asleep  on  a  horse-blanket 
and  woke  up  quite  calm. 

"Man,"  said  he,  "when  you  have  reached  the 
uttermost  depths  of  degradation,  little  incidents 
which  would  vex  a  higher  life,  are  to  you  of  no 
consequence.  Last  night,  my  soul  was  among 
the  Gods;  but  I  make  no  doubt  that  my  bestial 
body  was  writhing  down  here  in  the  garbage." 


378  Indian  Tales 

"You  were  abominably  drunk  if  tliat's  what 
you  mean,"  I  said. 

"I  was  drunk — filtliiiy  drunk.  I  who  am  the 
son  of  a  man  with  whom  you  have  no  concern — 
1  who  was  once  Fellow  of  a  College  whose  but- 
tery-hatch you  have  not  seen.  I  was  loathsomely 
drunk.  But  consider  how  lightly  1  am  touched. 
It  is  nothing  to  me.  Less  than  nothing;  fo*"  I  do 
not  even  feel  the  headache  which  should  be  my 
portion.  Now,  in  a  higher  life,  hov/  ghastly 
would  have  been  my  punishment,  how  bitter  my 
repentance!  Believe  me  my  friend  with  the 
neglected  education,  the  highest  is  as  the  lowest 
— always  supposing  each  degree  extreme." 

He  turned  round  on  the  blanket,  put  his  head 
between  his  fists  and  continued  — 

"On  the  Sou!  which  I  have  lost  and  on  the 
Conscience  which  I  have  killed,  I  tell  you  that  ! 
cannot  feel!  I  am  as  the  Gods,  knowing  good 
and  evil,  but  untouched  by  either.  Is  this  en- 
viable or  is  it  not?" 

When  a  man  has  lost  the  warning  of  "  next 
morning's  head,"  he  must  be  in  a  bad  state.  I 
answered,  looking  at  Mcintosh  on  the  blanket, 
with  his  hair  over  his  eyes  and  his  lips  blue-white, 
that  I  did  not  think  the  insensibility  good  enough. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  don't  say  that!  I  tell  you,  it 
is  good  and  most  enviable.  Think  of  my  con- 
solations!" 


To  be  Filed  for  Reference  379 

"  Have  you  so  many,  then,  Mcintosh  ?" 

"  Certainly;  your  attempts  at  sarcasm  which  is 
essentially  the  weapon  of  a  cultured  man,  are 
crude.  First,  my  attainments,  my  classical  and 
literary  knowledge,  blurred,  perhaps,  by  immod- 
erate drinking — which  reminds  me  that  before 
my  soul  went  to  the  Gods  last  night,  1  sold  the 
Pickering  Horace  you  so  kindly  loaned  me. 
Ditta  Mull  the  clothesman  has  it.  It  fetched  ten 
annas,  and  may  be  redeemed  for  a  rupee — but 
still  infinitely  superior  to  yours.  Secondly,  the 
abiding  affection  of  Mrs.  Mcintosh,  uest  of  wives. 
Thirdly,  a  monument,  more  enduring  than  brass, 
which  1  have  built  up  in  the  seven  years  of  my 
degradation." 

He  stopped  here,  and  crawled  across  the  room 
for  a  drink  of  water.  He  was  very  shaky  and 
sick. 

He  referred  several  times  to  his  "treasure" — 
some  great  possession  that  he  owned — but  1  held 
this  to  be  the  raving  of  drink.  He  was  as  poor 
and  as  proud  as  he  could  be.  His  manner  was 
not  pleasant,  but  he  knew  enough  about  the  na- 
tives, among  whom  seven  years  of  his  life  had 
been  spent,  to  make  his  acquaintance  worth  hav- 
ing. He  used  actually  to  laugh  at  Strickland  as 
an  ignorant  man — "ignorant  West  and  East" — 
he  said.  His  boast  was,  first,  that  he  was  an 
Oxford  Man  of  rare  and  shining  parts,  which 


38o  Indian   Tales 

may  or  may  not  have  been  true — I  did  not  know 
enough  to  check  his  statements — and,  secondly, 
that  he  "had  his  hand  on  the  pulse  of  native 
life  " — which  was  a  fact.  As  an  Oxford  Man,  he 
struck  me  as  a  prig:  he  was  always  throwing  his 
education  about.  As  a  Mohammedan  faquir — 
as  Mcintosh  Jellaludin — he  was  all  that  1  wanted 
for  my  own  ends.  He  smoked  several  pounds 
of  my  tobacco,  and  taught  me  several  ounces  of 
things  worth  knowing;  but  he  would  never  ac- 
cept any  gifts,  not  even  when  the  cold  weather 
came,  and  gripped  the  poor  thin  chest  under  the 
poor  thin  alpaca-coat.  He  grew  very  angry,  and 
said  that  I  had  insulted  him,  and  that  he  was  not 
going  into  hospital.  He  had  lived  like  a  beast 
and  he  would  die  rationally,  like  a  man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  died  of  pneumonia;  and 
on  the  night  of  his  death  sent  over  a  grubby  note 
asking  me  to  come  and  help  him  to  die. 

The  native  woman  was  weeping  by  the  side  of 
the  bed.  Mcintosh,  wrapped  in  a  cotton  cloth, 
was  too  weak  to  resent  a  fur  coat  being  thrown 
over  him.  He  was  very  active  as  far  as  his  mind 
was  concerned,  and  his  eyes  were  blazing. 
When  he  had  abused  the  Doctor  who  came  with 
me,  so  foully  that  the  indignant  old  fellow  left, 
he  cursed  me  for  a  few  minutes  and  calmed 
down. 

Then  he  told  his  wife  to  fetch  out  "The  Book " 


To  be  Filed  for  Reference  38 1 

from  a  hole  in  the  wall.  She  brought  out  a  big 
bundle,  wrapped  in  the  tail  of  a  petticoat,  of  old 
sheets  of  miscellaneous  note-paper,  all  numbered 
and  covered  with  fine  cramped  writing.  Mcin- 
tosh ploughed  his  hand  through  the  rubbish  and 
stirred  it  up  lovingly. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  my  work — the  Book  of 
Mcintosh  Jellaludin,  showing  what  he  saw  and 
how  he  lived,  and  what  befell  him  and  others; 
being  also  an  account  of  the  life  and  sins  and 
death  of  Mother  Maturin.  What  Mirza  Murad 
Ali  Beg's  book  is  to  all  other  books  on  native  life, 
will  my  work  be  to  Mirza  Murad  Ali  Beg's! " 

This,  as  will  be  conceded  by  any  one  who 
knows  Mirza  Murad  Ali  Beg's  book,  was  a  sweep- 
ing statement.  The  papers  did  not  look  specially 
valuable;  but  Mcintosh  handled  them  as  if  they 
were  currency-notes.     Then  said  he  slowly  — 

"  In  despite  the  many  weaknesses  of  your  edu- 
cation, you  have  been  good  to  me.  I  will  speak 
of  your  tobacco  when  1  reach  the  Gods.  1  owe 
you  much  thanks  for  many  kindnesses.  But  I 
abominate  indebtedness.  For  this  reason,  I  be- 
queath to  you  now  the  monument  more  en- 
during than  brass — my  one  book — rude  and 
imperfect  in  parts,  but  oh  how  rare  in  others!  I 
wonder  if  you  will  understand  it.  It  is  a  gift 
more  honorable  than  .  .  .  Bah!  where  is  my 
brain   rambling  to  ?    You  will  mutilate  it  hor- 


382  Indian  Tales 

ribly.  You  will  knock  out  the  gems  you  call 
Latin  quotations,  you  Philistine,  and  you  will 
butcher  the  style  to  carve  into  your  own  jerky 
jargon;  but  you  cannot  destroy  the  whole  of  it. 
I  bequeath  it  to  you.  Ethel  .  .  .  My  brain 
again!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Mcintosh,  bear  witness  that 
I  give  the  Sahib  all  these  papers.  They  would  be 
of  no  use  to  you.  Heart  of  my  Heart;  and  I  lay  it 
upon  you,"  he  turned  to  me  here,  "that  you  do 
not  let  my  book  die  in  its  present  form.  It  is 
yours  unconditionally — the  story  of  Mcintosh 
Jellaludin,  which  is  not  the  story  of  Mcintosh 
Jellaludin,  but  of  a  greater  man  than  he,  and  of  a 
far  greater  woman.  Listen  now!  I  am  neither 
mad  nor  drunk!  That  book  will  make  you 
famous." 

1  said,  "Thank  you,"  as  the  native  woman  put 
the  bundle  into  my  arms. 

"  My  only  baby!  "  said  Mcintosh,  with  a  smile. 
He  was  sinking  fast,  but  he  continued  to  talk  as 
long  as  breath  remained.  1  waited  for  the  end; 
knowing  that,  in  six  cases  out  of  ten  a  dying 
man  calls  for  his  mother.  He  turned  on  his  side 
and  said  — 

"Say  how  it  came  into  your  possession.  No 
one  will  believe  you,  but  my  name,  at  least,  will 
live.  You  will  treat  it  brutally,  I  know  you  will. 
Some  of  it  must  go;  the  public  are  fools  and 
prudish  fools.     1  was  their  servant  once.     But  do 


To  be  Filed  for  Reference  383 

your  mangling  gently — very  gently.  It  is  a  great 
work,  and  I  have  paid  for  it  in  seven  years'  dam- 
nation." 

His  voice  stopped  for  ten  or  twelve  breaths, 
and  then  he  began  mumbling  a  prayer  of  some 
kind  in  Greek.  The  native  woman  cried  very 
bitterly.  Lastly,  he  rose  in  bed  and  said,  as 
loudly  as  slowly — *'Not  guilty,  my  Lord!" 

Then  he  fell  back,  and  the  stupor  held  him  till 
he  died.  The  native  woman  ran  into  the  Serai 
among  the  horses,  and  screamed  and  beat  her 
breasts;  for  she  had  loved  him. 

Perhaps  his  last  sentence  in  life  told  what 
Mcintosh  had  once  gone  through;  but,  saving 
the  big  bundle  of  old  sheets  in  the  cloth,  there 
was  nothing  in  his  room  to  say  who  or  what  he 
had  been. 

The  papers  were  in  a  hopeless  muddle. 

Strickland  helped  me  to  sort  them,  and  he  said 
that  the  writer  was  either  an  extreme  liar  or  a 
most  wonderful  person.  He  thought  the  former. 
One  of  these  days,  you  may  be  able  to  judge 
for  yourselves.  The  bundle  needed  much  ex- 
purgation and  was  full  of  Greek  nonsense,  at 
the  head  of  the  chapters,  which  has  all  been  cut 
out. 

If  the  thing  is  ever  published,  some  one  may 
perhaps  remember  this  story,  now  printed  as 
a  safeguard  to  prove  that  Mcintosh  Jeilaludin 


384  Indian  Tale':, 


and  not  I  myself  wrote  the  Book  of  Mother  Ma- 
turin. 

1  don't  want  the  Gianfs  Robe  to  come  true  in 
mv  case. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 

"  Brother  to  a  Prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he  be  found 
worthy." 

THE  Law,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  con- 
duct of  life,  and  one  not  easy  to  follow.  I 
have  been  fellow  to  a  beggar  again  and  again 
under  circumstances  which  prevented  either  of 
us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was  worthy.  I 
have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  Prince,  though  I  once 
came  near  to  kinship  with  what  might  have  been 
a  veritable  King  and  was  promised  the  reversion 
of  a  Kingdom — army,  law-courts,  revenue  and 
policy  all  complete.  But,  to-day,  I  greatly  fear 
that  my  King  is  dead,  and  if  I  want  a  crown  1 
must  go  and  hunt  it  for  myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  railway 
train  upon  the  road  to  Mhow  from  Ajmir.  There 
had  been  a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which  neces- 
sitated traveling,  not  Second-class,  which  is  only 
half  as  dear  as  First-class,  but  by  Intermediate, 
which  is  very  awful  indeed.  There  are  no  cush- 
ions in  the  Intermediate  class,  and  the  popula- 
tion are  either  Intermediate,  which  is  Eurasian,  or 
native,  which  for  a  long  night  journey  is  nasty, 
or  Loafer,  which  is  amusing  though  intoxicated. 
385 


386  Indian  Tales 

Intermediates  do  not  patronize  refreshment- 
rooms.  They  carry  their  food  in  bundles  and 
pots,  and  buy  sweets  from  the  native  <=  weetmeat- 
sellers,  and  drink  the  roadside  water.  That  is 
why  in  the  hot  weather  Intermediates  are  taken 
out  of  the  carriages  dead,  and  in  all  weathers  are 
most  properly  looked  down  upon. 

My  particular  Intermediate  happened  to  be 
empty  till  I  reached  Nasirabad,  when  a  huge 
gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  entered,  and,  follow- 
ing the  custom  of  Intermediates,  passed  the  time 
of  day.  He  was  a  wanderer  and  a  vagabond  like 
myself,  but  with  an  educated  taste  for  whiskey. 
He  told  tales  of  things  he  had  seen  and  done,  of 
out-of-the-way  corners  of  the  Empire  into  which 
he  had  penetrated,  and  of  adventures  in  which 
he  risked  his  life  for  a  few  days'  food.  "  If  India 
was  filled  with  men  like  you  and  me,  not  know- 
ing more  than  the  crows  where  they'd  get  their 
next  day's  rations,  it  isn't  seventy  millions  of 
revenue  the  land  would  be  paying — it's  seven 
hundred  millions,"  said  he;  and  as  I  looked  at 
his  mouth  and  chin  I  was  disposed  to  agree  with 
him.  We  talked  politics — the  politics  of  Loafer- 
dom  that  sees  things  from  the  underside  where 
the  lath  and  plaster  is  not  smoothed  off — and  we 
talked  postal  arrangements  because  my  friend 
wanted  to  send  a  telegram  back  from  the  next 
station  to  Ajmir,  which  is  the  turning-off  place 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  387 

from  the  Bombay  to  the  Mhow  line  as  you  travel 
westward.  My  friend  had  no  money  beyond 
eight  annas  which  he  wanted  for  dinner,  and  I 
had  no  money  at  all,  owing  to  the  hitch  in  the 
Budget  before  mentioned.  Further,  I  was  going 
into  a  wilderness  where,  though  I  should  resume 
touch  with  the  Treasury,  there  were  no  telegraph 
offices.  I  was,  therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in 
any  way. 

"We  might  threaten  a  Station-master,  and 
make  him  send  a  wire  on  tick,"  said  my  friend, 
"but  that'd  mean  inquiries  for  you  and  for  me, 
and  I've  got  my  hands  full  these  days.  Did  you 
say  you  are  traveling  back  along  this  line  within 
any  days  ?  " 

"Within  ten,"  I  said. 

"Can't  you  make  it  eight?"  said  he.  "Mine 
is  rather  urgent  business." 

"I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days  if 
that  will  serve  you,"  I  said. 

"I  couldn't  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now  I 
think  of  it.  It's  this  way.  He  leaves  Delhi  on 
the  23d  for  Bombay.  That  means  he'll  be  run- 
ning through  Ajmir  about  the  night  of  the  23d." 

"  But  I'm  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,"  I  ex- 
plained. 

"  Well  and  good,"  said  he.  "  You'll  be  chang- 
ing at  Marwar  Junction  to  get  into  Jodhpore  ter- 
ritory— you  must  do  that — and  he'll  be  coming 


388  Indian   Tales 

through  Marwar  Junction  in  the  early  morning  of 
the  24th  by  the  Bombay  Mail,  Can  you  be  at 
Marwar  Junction  on  that  time  ?  Twon't  be  in- 
conveniencing you  because  1  know  that  there's 
precious  few  pickings  to  be  got  out  of  these 
Central  India  States — even  though  you  pretend 
to  be  correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman." 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick?"  I  asked. 

"Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find  you 
out,  and  then  you  get  escorted  to  the  Border  be- 
fore you've  time  to  get  your  knife  into  them. 
But  about  my  friend  here.  I  must  give  him  a 
word  o'  mouth  to  tell  him  what's  come  to  me  or 
else  he  won't  know  where  to  go.  1  would  take 
it  more  than  kind  of  you  if  you  was  to  come  out 
of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him  at  Marwar 
Junction,  and  say  to  him: — 'He  has  gone  South 
for  the  week.'  He'll  know  what  that  means. 
He's  a  big  man  with  a  red  beard,  and  a  great 
swell  he  is.  You'll  find  him  sleeping  like  a 
gentleman  with  all  his  luggage  round  him  in  a 
Second-class  compartment.  But  don't  you  be 
afraid.  Slip  down  the  window,  and  say: — 'He 
has  gone  South  for  the  week,'  and  he'll  tumble. 
It's  only  cutting  your  time  of  stay  in  those  parts 
by  two  days.  I  ask  you  as  a  stranger — going  to 
the  West,"  he  said,  with  emphasis. 

"Where  havejw^  come  from.^"  said  I. 

**From  the  East,"  said  he,  "and  I  am  hoping 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  389 

that  you  will  give  him  the  message  on  the  Square 
— for  the  sake  of  my  Mother  as  well  as  your 
own." 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  ap- 
peals to  the  memory  of  their  mothers,  but  for 
certain  reasons,  which  will  be  fully  apparent,  1 
saw  fit  to  agree. 

"It's  more  than  a  little  matter,"  said  he,  "and 
that's  why  1  ask  you  to  do  it— and  now  I  know 
that  I  can  depend  on  you  doing  it.  A  Second- 
class  carriage  at  Marwar  Junction,  and  a  red- 
haired  man  asleep  in  it.  You'll  be  sure  to  re- 
member. 1  get  out  at  the  next  station,  and  I 
must  hold  on  there  till  he  comes  or  sends  me 
what  1  want." 

"I'll  give  the  message  if  1  catch  him,"  I  said, 
"and  for  the  sake  of  your  Mother  as  well  as 
mine  I'll  give  you  a  word  of  advice.  Don't  try 
to  run  the  Central  India  States  just  now  as  the 
correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman,  There's  a 
real  one  knocking  about  here,  and  it  might  lead 
to  trouble." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  simply,  "and  when  v^ill 
the  swine  be  gone  ?  I  can't  starve  because  he's 
ruining  my  work.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the 
Degumber  Rajah  down  here  about  his  father's 
widow,  and  give  him  a  jump." 

"What  did  he  do  to  his  father's  widow 
*hen  ?  " 


390  Indian  Tales 

"Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slippered 
her  to  death  as  she  hung  from  a  beam.  I  found 
that  out  myself  and  I'm  the  only  man  that  v/ould 
dare  going  into  the  State  to  get  hush-money  for 
it.  They'll  try  to  poison  me,  same  as  they  did 
in  Chortumna  when  1  went  on  the  loot  there. 
But  you'll  give  the  man  at  Marwar  Junction  my 
message  ?  " 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and  1  re- 
flected. I  had  heard,  more  than  once,  of  men 
personating  correspondents  of  newspapers  and 
bleeding  small  Native  States  with  threats  of 
exposure,  but  1  had  never  met  any  of  the  caste 
before.  They  lead  a  hard  life,  and  generally  die 
with  great  suddenness.  The  Native  States  have 
a  wholesome  horror  of  English  newspapers, 
which  may  throw  light  on  their  peculiar 
methods  of  government,  and  do  their  best  to 
choke  correspondents  with  champagne,  or  drive 
them  out  of  their  mind  with  four-in-hand 
barouches.  They  do  not  understand  that  no- 
body cares  a  straw  for  the  internal  administration 
of  Native  States  so  long  as  oppression  and  crime 
are  kept  within  decent  limits,  and  the  ruler  is  not 
drugged,  drunk,  or  diseased  from  one  end  of  the 
year  to  the  other.  Native  States  were  created  by 
Providence  in  order  to  supply  picturesque  scenery, 
tigers,  and  tall-writing.  They  are  the  dark  places 
of  the  earth,  full  of  unimaginable  cruelty,  touch- 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  391 

ing  the  Railway  and  the  Telegraph  on  one  side, 
and,  on  the  other,  the  days  of  Harun-al-Raschid. 
When  I  left  the  train  I  did  business  with  divers 
Kings,  and  in  eight  days  passed  through  many 
changes  of  life.  Sometimes  1  wore  dress-clothes 
and  consorted  with  Princes  and  Politicals,  drinking 
from  crystal  and  eating  from  silver.  Sometimes 
I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and  devoured  what  I 
could  get,  from  a  plate  made  of  a  flapjack,  and 
drank  the  running  water,  and  slept  under  the 
same  rug  as  my  servant.  It  was  all  in  the  day's 
work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert  upon 
the  proper  date,  as  I  had  promised,  and  the  night 
Mail  set  me  down  at  Marwar  Junction,  where  a 
funny  little,  happy-go-lucky,  native-managed 
railway  runs  to  Jodhpore.  The  Bombay  Mail 
from  Delhi  makes  a  short  halt  at  Marwar.  She 
arrived  as  I  got  in,  and  1  had  just  time  to  hurry 
to  her  platform  and  go  down  the  carriages. 
There  was  only  one  Second-class  jn  the  train.  I 
slipped  the  window  and  looked  down  upon  a 
flaming  red  beard,  half  covered  by  a  railway  rug. 
That  was  my  man,  fast  asleep,  and  I  dug  him 
gently  in  the  ribs.  He  woke  with  a  grunt  and  I 
saw  his  face  in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  It  was  a 
great  and  shining  face. 

"Tickets  again?"  said  he. 

"No,"  said  I.     "I  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is 


392  Indian   Tales 

gone  South  for  the  week.  He  is  gone  South  for 
the  week! " 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red 
man  rubbed  his  eyes.  "  He  has  gone  South  for 
the  week,"  he  repeated.  "Now  that's  just  Hke 
his  impidence.  Did  he  say  that  I  was  to  give 
you  anything? — 'Cause  I  won't." 

"He  didn't,"  I  said,  and  dropped  away,  and 
watched  the  red  lights  die  out  in  the  dark.  It 
was  horribly  cold  because  the  wind  was:  bio  ./ing 
off  the  sands.  I  climbed  into  my  own  train — not 
an  Intermediate  Carriage  this  time — and  went  to 
sleep. 

If  the  man  with  the  beard  had  given  me  a 
rupee  I  should  have  kept  it  as  a  memento  of  a 
rather  curious  affair.  But  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  my  duty  was  my  only  reward. 

Later  on  I  reflected  that  two  gentlemen  like  my 
friends  could  not  do  any  good  if  they  foregath- 
ered and  personated  correspondents  of  news- 
papers, and  might,  if  they  "stuck  up"  one  of 
the  little  rat-trap  states  of  Central  India  or  South- 
ern Rajputana,  get  themselves  into  serious  diffi- 
culties. I  therefore  took  some  trouble  to  de- 
scribe them  as  accurately  as  I  could  remember 
to  people  who  would  be  interested  in  deporting 
them:  and  succeeded,  so  I  was  later  informed, 
in  having  them  headed  back  from  the  Degumbei 
borders. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  393 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned  to  an 
Office  where  there  were  no  Kings  and  no  in- 
cidents except  the  daily  manufacture  of  a  news- 
paper. A  newspaper  office  seems  to  attract  every 
conceivable  sort  of  person,  to  the  prejudice  of 
discipline.  Zenana-mission  ladies  arrive,  and  beg 
that  the  Editor  will  instantly  abandon  all  his 
duties  to  describe  a  Christian  prize-giving  in  a 
back-slum  of  a  perfectly  inaccessible  village; 
Colonels  who  have  been  overpassed  for  com- 
mands sit  down  and  sketch  the  outline  of  a  series 
of  ten,  twelve,  or  twenty-four  leading  articles  on 
Seniority  versus  Selection ;  missionaries  wish  to 
know  why  they  have  not  been  permitted  to 
escape  from  their  regular  vehicles  of  abuse  and 
swear  at  a  brother-missionary  under  special  pat- 
ronage of  the  editorial  We;  stranded  theatrical 
companies  troop  up  to  explain  that  they  cannot 
pay  for  their  advertisements,  but  on  their  return 
from  New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so  with 
interest;  inventors  of  patent  punkah-pulling 
machines,  carriage  couplings  and  unbreakable 
swords  and  axle-trees  call  with  specifications  in 
their  pockets  and  hours  at  their  disposal;  tea- 
companies  enter  and  elaborate  their  prospectuses 
with  the  office  pens;  secretaries  of  ball-commit- 
tees clamor  to  have  the  glories  of  their  last  dance 
more  fully  expounded;  strange  ladies  rustle  in 
and  say: — "  1  want  a  hundred  lady's  cards  printed 


394  Indian  Tales 

at  once,  please,"  which  is  manifestly  part  of  an 
Editor's  duty;  and  every  dissolute  ruffian  that 
ever  tramped  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  makes  it  his 
business  to  ask  for  employment  as  a  proof- 
reader. And,  all  the  time,  the  telephone-bell  is 
ringing  madly,  and  Kings  are  being  killed  on  the 
Continent,  and  Empires  are  saying — "You're  an- 
other," and  Mister  Gladstone  is  calling  down 
brimstone  upon  the  British  Dominions,  and  the 
little  black  copy-boys  are  whining,  "  kaa-pi  chay- 
ha-yeh"  (copy  wanted)  like  tired  bees,  and  most 
of  the  paper  is  as  blank  as  Modred's  shield. 

But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year. 
There  are  other  six  months  wherein  none  evei' 
come  to  call,  and  the  thermometer  walks  inch  by 
inch  up  to  the  top  of  the  glass,  and  the  office  is 
darkened  to  just  above  reading-light,  and  the 
press  machines  are  red-hot  of  touch,  and  nobody 
writes  anything  but  accounts  of  amusements  in 
the  Hill-stations  or  obituary  notices.  Then  the 
telephone  becomes  a  tinkling  terror,  because  it 
tells  you  of  the  sudden  deaths  of  men  and 
women  that  you  knew  intimately,  and  the 
prickly-heat  covers  you  as  with  a  garment,  and 
you  sit  down  and  write: — "A  slight  increase  of 
sickness  is  reported  from  the  Khuda  Janta  Khan 
District.  The  outbreak  is  purely  sporadic  in  its 
nature,  and,  thanks  to  the  energetic  efforts  of  the 
District  authorities,  is  now  almost  at  an  end.     It 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  395 

is,  however,  with  deep  regret  we  record  the 
death,  etc." 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and  the 
less  recording  and  reporting  the  better  for  the 
peace  of  the  subscribers.  But  the  Empires  and 
the  Kings  continue  to  divert  themselves  as  sel- 
fishly as  before,  and  the  Foreman  thinks  that  a 
daily  paper  really  ought  to  come  out  once  in 
twenty-four  hours,  and  all  the  people  at  the 
Hill-stations  in  the  middle  of  their  amusements 
say : — ' '  Good  gracious !  Why  can't  the  paper  be 
sparkling.^  I'm  sure  there's  plenty  going  on  up 
here." 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and,  as  the 
advertisements  say,  "must  be  experienced  to  be 
appreciated." 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably  evil 
season,  that  the  paper  began  running  the  last 
issue  of  the  week  on  Saturday  night,  which  is  to 
say  Sunday  morning,  after  the  custom  of  a 
London  paper.  This  was  a  great  convenience, 
for  immediately  after  the  paper  was  put  to  bed, 
the  dawn  would  lower  the  thermometer  from 
96°  to  almost  84°  for  half  an  hour,  and  in  that 
chill — you  have  no  idea  how  ccld  is  84°  on  the 
grass  until  you  begin  to  pray  for  it — a  very  tired 
man  could  set  off  to  sleep  ere  the  heat  roused 
him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant  duty  to 


^q6  tnuiun    I  Ui^S 

put  the  paper  to  bed  alone.  A  King  or  courtier 
or  a  courtesan  or  a  community  was  going  to  die 
or  get  a  new  Constitution,  or  do  something  that 
was  important  on  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
and  the  paper  was  to  be  held  open  till  the  latest 
possible  minute  in  order  to  catch  the  telegram. 
It  was  a  pitchy  black  night,  as  stifling  as  a  June 
night  can  be,  and  the  loo,  the  red-hot  wind  from 
the  westward,  was  booming  among  the  tinder- 
dry  trees  and  pretending  that  the  rain  was  on  its 
heels.  Now  and  again  a  spot  of  almost  boiling 
water  would  fall  on  the  dust  with  the  flop  of  a 
frog,  but  all  our  weary  world  knew  that  was 
only  pretence.  It  was  a  shade  cooler  in  the 
press-room  than  the  office,  so  I  sat  there,  while 
the  type  ticked  and  clicked,  and  the  night-jars 
hooted  at  the  windows,  and  the  all  but  naked 
compositors  wiped  the  sweat  from  their  fore- 
heads and  called  for  water.  The  thing  that  was 
keeping  us  back,  whatever  it  was,  would  not 
come  off,  though  the  loo  dropped  and  the  last 
type  was  set,  and  the  whole  round  earth  stood 
still  in  the  choking  heat,  with  its  finger  on  its 
lip,  to  wait  the  event.  1  drowsed,  and  wondered 
whether  the  telegraph  was  a  blessing,  and 
whether  this  dying  man,  or  struggling  people, 
was  aware  of  the  inconvenience  the  delay  was 
causing.  There  was  no  special  reason  beyond 
the  heat  and  worry  to  make  tension,  but,  as  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  397 

clock  hands  crept  up  to  three  o'clock  and  the 
machines  spun  their  fly-wheels  two  and  three 
times  to  see  that  all  was  in  order,  before  I  said 
the  word  that  would  set  them  off,  1  could  have 
shrieked  aloud. 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels  shivered 
the  quiet  into  little  bits.  1  rose  to  go  away,  but 
tv/o  men  in  white  clothes  stood  in  front  of  me. 
The  first  one  said: — "It's  him!"  The  second 
said: — "So  it  is!"  And  they  both  laughed 
almost  as  loudly  as  the  machinery  roared,  and 
mopped  their  foreheads,  "  We  see  there  was  a 
light  burning  across  the  road  and  we  were  sleep- 
ing in  that  ditch  there  for  coolness,  and  I  said  to 
my  friend  here,  The  office  is  open.  Let's  come 
along  and  speak  to  him  as  turned  us  back  from 
the  Degumber  State,"  said  the  smaller  of  the 
two.  He  was  the  man  I  had  met  in  the  Mhow 
train,  and  his  fellow  was  the  red-bearded  man  of 
Marwar  Junction.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  eyebrows  of  the  one  or  the  beard  of  the 
other. 

I  was  not  pleased,  because  1  wished  to  go  to 
sleep,  not  to  squabble  with  loafers.  "  What  do 
you  want  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Half  an  hour's  talk  with  you  cool  and  com- 
fortable, in  the  office,"  said  the  red-bearded  man. 
"We'd  like  some  drink — the  Conirack  doesn't 
begin  yet,  Peachey,  so  you  needn't  look — but 


398  Indian  Tales 

what  we  really  want  is  advice.  We  don't  want 
money.  We  ask  you  as  a  favor,  because  you  did 
us  a  bad  turn  about  Degumber." 

I  led  from  the  press-room  to  the  stifling  office 
with  the  maps  on  the  walls,  and  the  red-haired 
man  rubbed  his  hands.  "That's  something 
like,"  said  he.  "This  was  the  proper  shop  to 
come  to.  Now,  Sir,  let  me  introduce  to  you 
Brother  Peachey  Carnehan,  that's  him,  and 
Brother  Daniel  Dravot,  that  is  me,  and  the  less 
said  about  our  professions  the  better,  for  we  have 
been  most  things  in  our  time.  Soldier,  sailor, 
compositor,  photographer,  proof-reader,  street- 
preacher,  and  correspondents  of  the  Backwoods- 
man when  we  thought  the  paper  wanted  one. 
Carnehan  is  sober,  and  so  am  I.  Look  at  us  first 
and  see  that's  sure.  It  will  save  you  cutting  into 
my  talk.  We'll  take  one  of  your  cigars  apiece, 
and  you  shall  see  us  light." 

I  watched  the  test.  The  men  were  absolutely 
sober,  so  I  gave  them  each  a  tepid  peg. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  Carnehan  of  the  eye- 
brows, wiping  the  froth  from  his  moustache. 
"  Let  me  talk  now,  Dan.  We  have  been  all  over 
India,  mostly  on  foot.  We  have  been  boiler- 
fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty  contractors,  and  all 
that,  and  we  have  decided  that  India  isn't  big 
enough  for  such  as  us." 

They  certainly  were  too  big  for  the  office. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  399 

Dravot's  beard  seemed  to  fill  half  the  room 
and  Carnehan's  shoulders  the  other  half,  as  they 
sat  on  the  big  table.  Carnehan  continued: — 
"The  country  isn't  half  worked  out  because  they 
that  governs  it  won't  let  you  touch  it.  They 
spend  all  their  blessed  time  in  governing  it,  and 
you  can't  lift  a  spade,  nor  chip  a  rock,  nor  look 
for  oil,  nor  anything  like  that  without  all  the 
Government  saying — '  Leave  it  alone  and  let  us 
govern.'  Therefore,  such  as  it  is,  we  will  let  it 
alone,  and  go  away  to  some  other  place  where  a 
man  isn't  crowded  and  can  come  to  his  own. 
We  are  not  little  men,  and  there  is  nothing  that 
we  are  afraid  of  except  Drink,  and  we  have 
signed  a  Contrack  on  that.  Therefore,  we  are 
going  away  to  be  Kings." 

"  Kings  in  our  own  right,"  muttered  Dravot. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  I  said.  "You've  been 
tramping  in  the  sun,  and  it's  a  very  warm  night, 
and  hadn't  you  better  sleep  over  the  notion .? 
Come  to-morrow." 

"Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck,"  said  Dravot. 
"  We  have  slept  over  the  notion  half  a  year,  and 
require  to  see  Books  and  Atlases,  and  we  have 
decided  that  there  is  only  cne  place  now  in  the 
world  that  two  strong  men  can  S-AX-Si-whach. 
They  call  it  Kafiristan.  By  my  reckoning  it's  the 
top  right-hand  corner  of  Afghanistan,  not  more 
than  three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawur.    They 


400  Indian  Tales 

have  two  and  thirty  heathen  idols  there,  and 
we'll  be  the  thirty-third.  It's  a  mountaineous 
country,  and  the  women  of  those  parts  are  very 
beautiful." 

"  But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  Contrack,'^ 
said  Carnehan.  "Neither  Women  nor  Liqu-or, 
Daniel." 

"And  that's  all  we  know,  except  that  no  one 
has  gone  there,  and  they  fight,  and  in  any  place 
where  they  fight  a  man  who  knows  how  to  drill 
men  can  always  be  a  King.  We  shall  go  to 
those  parts  and  say  to  any  King  we  find — *  D' 
you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes.^'  and  we  will 
show  him  how  to  drill  men;  for  that  we  know 
better  than  anything  else.  Then  we  will  subvert 
that  King  and  seize  his  Throne  and  establish  a 
Dy-nasty." 

"You'll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you're  fifty 
miles  across  the  Border,"  I  said.  "You  have  to 
travel  through  Afghanistan  to  get  to  that  coun- 
try. It's  one  mass  of  mountains  and  peaks  and 
glaciers,  and  no  Englishman  has  been  through 
it.  The  people  are  utter  brutes,  and  even  if  you 
reached  them  you  couldn't  do  anything." 

"That's  more  like,"  said  Carnehan.  "  If  you 
could  think  us  a  little  more  mad  we  would  be 
more  pleased.  We  have  come  to  you  to  know 
about  this  country,  to  read  a  book  about  it,  and 
to  be  shown  maps.     We  want  you  to  tell  us  that 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  401 

we  are  fools  and  to  show  us  your  books."  He 
turned  to  the  bookcases. 

"  Are  you  at  all  in  earnest  }  "  I  said. 

"A  little,"  said  Dravot,  sweetly.  "As  big  a 
map  as  you  have  got,  even  if  it's  all  blank  where 
Kafiristan  is,  and  any  books  you've  got.  We 
can  read,  though  we  aren't  very  educated." 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch 
map  of  India,  and  two  smaller  Frontier  maps, 
hauled  dov/n  volume  INF-KAN  of  the  EuLyclo- 
pccdia  Brittanica,  and  the  men  consulted  them. 

"See  here!"  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on  the 
map,  "  Up  to  Jagdallak,  Peachey  and  me  know 
the  road.  We  was  there  with  Roberts's  Army. 
We'll  have  to  turn  off  to  the  right  at  Jagdallak 
through  Laghmann  territory.  Then  we  get 
among  the  hills — fourteen  thousand  feet — fifteen 
thousand — it  will  be  cold  work  there,  but  it  don't 
look  very  far  on  the  map." 

1  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the 
Oxus.     Carnehan  was  deep  in  the  Eucyclopcvdia. 

"They're  a  mixed  lot,"  said  Dravot,  reflec- 
tively; "and  it  won't  help  us  to  know  the  names 
of  their  tribes.  The  more  tribes  the  more  they'll 
fight,  and  the  better  for  us.  From  Jagdallak  to 
Ashang.     H'mm!" 

"But  all  the  information  about  the  country  is 
as  sketchy  and  inaccurate  as  can  be,"  I  protested. 
"No  one  knows  anything  about  it  really.     Here's 


402  Indian   Tales 

the  file  of  the  United  Services'  Institute.  Read 
what  Bellew  says." 

"Blow  Bellew!"  said  Carnehan.  "Dan, 
they're  an  all-fired  lot  of  heathens,  but  this  book 
here  says  they  think  they're  related  to  us  English." 

I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Raverty, 
Wood,  the  maps  and  the  Encyclopcedia. 

"There  is  no  use  your  waiting,"  said  Dravot, 
politely.  "It's  about  four  o'clock  now.  We'll 
go  before  six  o'clock  if  you  want  to  sleep,  and 
we  won't  steal  any  of  the  papers.  Don't  you 
sit  up.  We're  two  harmless  lunatics,  and  if  you 
come,  to-morrow  evening,  down  to  the  Serai 
we'll  say  good-bye  to  you." 

"You  are  two  fools,"  I  answered.  "You'll 
be  turned  back  at  the  Frontier  or  cut  up  the  min- 
ute you  set  foot  in  Afghanistan.  Do  you  want 
any  money  or  a  recommendation  down-country.^ 
1  ';an  help  you  to  the  chance  of  work  next  week." 

"  Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  our- 
selves, thank  you,"  said  Dravot.  "It  isn't  so 
easy  being  a  King  as  it  looks.  When  we've  got 
our  Kingdom  in  going  order  we'll  let  you  know, 
and  you  can  come  up  and  help  us  to  govern  it." 

"Would  two  lunatics  make  a  Contrack  like 
that?"  said  Carnehan,  with  subdued  pride, 
showing  me  a  greasy  half-sheet  of  note-paper 
on  which  was  written  the  following.  I  copied 
it,  then  and  there,  as  a  curiosity: 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  403 

This  Contract  between  me  and  you  persuing 
wttnesseth  in  the  name  of  God — Amen  and  so 
forth. 

{One)     That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  matter 
together :  i.  e.,  to  be  Kings  of  Kafir- 
istan. 
{Two)     That  you  and  me  will  not,  while  this 
matter  is  beir.g  rrttled,  look  at  any 
Liquor,  nor  any  Woman,  black,  white 
or  brown,  so  as  to  g.  t  mixed  up  with 
one  or  the  other  harmful. 
(  Three)    That  we  conduct  ourselves  with  dignity 
and  discretion,  and  if  one  of  its  gets 
into  trouble  the  other  will  stay  by 
him. 
Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 

Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 

Daniel  Dravot. 

Both  Gentlemen  at  Large. 

"There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article,"  said 
Carnehan,  blushing  modestly;  "  but  it  looks  reg- 
ular. Now  you  know  the  sort  of  men  that  loaf- 
ers are — we  are  loafers,  Dan,  until  we  get  out  of 
India — and  do  you  think  that  we  would  sign  a 
Contrack  like  that  unless  we  was  in  earnest  ? 
We  have  kept  away  from  the  two  things  that 
make  life  worth  having." 

"  You  won't  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer  if 


404  Indian   Tales 

you  are  going  to  try  this  idiotic  adventure.  Don't 
set  the  office  on  fire,"  1  said,  "and  go  away  be- 
fore nine  o'clock." 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and 
making  notes  on  the  back  of  the  "Contrack." 
"  Be  sure  to  come  down  to  the  Serai  to-morrow," 
were  their  parting  words. 

The  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four-square 
sink  of  humanity  where  the  strings  of  camels 
and  horses  from  the  North  load  and  unload.  All 
the  nationalities  of  Central  Asia  may  be  found 
there,  and  most  of  the  folk  of  India  proper. 
Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet  Bengal  and  Bom- 
bay, and  try  to  draw  eye-teeth.  You  can  buy 
ponies,  turquoises,  Persian  pussy-cats,  saddle- 
bags, fat-tailed  sheep  and  musk  in  the  Kum- 
harsen Serai,  and  get  many  strange  things  for 
nothing.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  down  there  to 
see  whether  my  friends  intended  to  keep  their 
word  or  were  lying  about  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and 
rags  stalked  up  to  me,  gravely  twisting  a  child's 
paper  whirligig.  Behind  him  was  his  servant 
bending  under  the  load  of  a  crate  of  mud  toys. 
The  two  were  loading  up  two  camels,  and  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Serai  watched  them  with 
shrieks  of  laughter. 

"The  priest  is  mad,"  said  a  horse-dealer  to  me. 
"  He  is  going  up  to  Kabul  to  sell  toys  to  the  Amir. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  405 

He  will  either  be  raised  to  honor  or  have  his  head 
cut  off.  He  came  in  here  this  morning  and  has 
been  behaving  madly  ever  since." 

"  The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of  God," 
stammered  a  flat-cheeked  Usbeg  in  broken  Hindi. 
"They  foretell  future  events." 

"  Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my  car- 
avan would  have  been  cut  up  by  the  Shinwaris 
almost  within  shadow  of  the  Pass!"  grunted  the 
Eusufzai  agent  of  a  Rajputana  trading-house 
whose  goods  had  been  feloniously  diverted  into 
the  hands  of  other  robbers  just  across  the  Border, 
and  whose  misfortunes  were  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  bazar.  "  Ohe,  priest,  whence  come  you 
and  whither  do  you  go.^" 

"  From  Roum  have  I  come,"  shouted  the  priest, 
waving  his  whirligig;  "from  Roum,  blown  by 
the  breath  of  a  hundred  devils  across  the  sea! 
O  thieves,  robbers,  liars,  the  blessing  of  Pir 
Khan  on  pigs,  dogs,  and  perjurers!  Who  will 
take  the  Protected  of  God  to  the  North  to  sell 
charms  that  are  never  still  to  the  Amir.?  The 
camels  shall  not  gall,  the  sons  shall  not  fall  sick, 
and  the  wives  shall  remain  faithful  while  they 
are  away,  of  the  men  who  give  me  place  in  their 
caravan.  Who  will  assist  me  to  slipper  the  King 
of  the  Roos  with  a  golden  slipper  with  a  silver 
heel.?  The  protection  of  Pir  Khan  be  upon  his 
labors!"     He  spread  out  the  skirts  of  his  gaber- 


4o6  Indian  Tales 

dine  and  pirouetted  between  the  lines  of  tethered 
horses. 

"There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawur  to 
Kab'jl  in  twenty  days,  Hu{riit,"  said  the  Eusufzai 
trader.  "  My  camels  go  therewith.  Do  thou  also 
go  and  bring  us  good-luck." 

"1  will  go  even  now!"'  shouted  the  priest. 
"I  will  depart  upon  my  winged  camels,  and  be 
at  Pashawur  in  a  day!  Hoi  Hazar  Mir  Khan," 
he  yelled  to  his  servant,  "drive  out  the  camels, 
but  let  me  first  mount  my  own." 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it  knelt, 
and,  turning  round  to  me,  cried: — "Come  thou 
also,  Sahib,  a  little  along  the  road,  and  I  will  sell 
thee  a  charm — an  amulet  that  shall  make  thee 
King  of  Kafiristan." 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  I  followed 
the  two  camels  out  of  the  Serai  till  we  reached 
open  road  and  the  priest  halted. 

"What  d'  you  think  o'  that?"  said  he  in 
English.  "Carnehan  can't  talk  their  patter,  so 
I've  made  him  my  servant.  He  makes  a  hand- 
some servant.  'Tisn't  for  nothing  that  I've  been 
knocking  about  the  country  for  fourteen  years. 
Didn't  1  do  that  talk  neat?  We'll  hitch  on  to 
a  caravan  at  Peshawur  till  we  get  to  Jagdallak, 
and  then  we'll  see  if  we  can  get  donkeys  for 
our  camels,  and  strike  into  Kafiristan.  Whirl- 
igigs for    the  Amir,    O    Lor!     Put   your    hand 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  407 

under  the  camel-bags  and  tell  me  what  you 
feel." 

1  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and 
another. 

"Twenty  of  'em,"  said  Dravot,  placidly. 
"Twenty  of  'em,  and  ammunition  to  correspond, 
under  the  whirligigs  and  the  mud  dolls." 

"  Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with 
those  things!"  1  said.  "A  Martini  is  worth  her 
weight  in  silver  among  the  Pathans." 

"Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital — every  ru- 
pee we  could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal — are  invested 
on  these  two  camels,"  said  Dravot.  "We  won't 
get  caught.  We're  going  through  the  Khaiber 
with  a  regular  caravan.  Who'd  touch  a  poor 
mad  priest }  " 

"  Have  you  got  everything  you  want  ?  "  I  asked, 
overcome  with  astonishment. 

"Not  yet,  but  we  shall  soon.  Give  us  a  me- 
mento of  your  kindness.  Brother.  You  did  me 
a  service  yesterday,  and  that  time  in  Marwar. 
Half  my  Kingdom  shall  you  have,  as  the  saying 
is."  I  slipped  a  small  charm  compass  from  my 
watch-chain  and  handed  it  up  to  the  priest. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Dravot,  giving  me  hand 
cautiously.  "  It's  the  last  time  we'll  shake  hands 
with  an  Englishman  these  many  days.  Shake 
hands  with  him,  Carnehan,"  he  cried,  as  the  sec- 
ond camel  passed  me. 


4o8  Indian  Tales 

Carnehan  leaned  down  and  shook  hands.  Then 
the  camels  passed  away  along  the  dusty  road; 
and  I  was  left  alone  to  wonder.  My  eye  could 
detect  no  failure  in  the  disguises.  The  scene  in 
Serai  attested  that  they  were  complete  to  the 
native  mind.  There  was  just  the  chance,  there- 
fore, that  Carnehan  and  Dravot  would  be  able  to 
wander  through  Afghanistan  without  detection. 
But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death,  certain  and 
awful  death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  friend  of  mine,  giving 
me  the  news  of  the  day  from  Peshawur,  wound 
up  his  letter  with: — "There  has  been  much  laugh- 
ter here  on  account  of  a  certain  mad  priest  who 
is  going  in  his  estimation  to  sell  petty  gauds  and 
insignificant  trinkets  which  he  ascribes  as  great 
charms  to  H.  H.  the  Amir  of  Bokhara.  He  passed 
through  Peshawur  and  associated  himself  to  the 
Second  Summer  caravan  that  goes  to  Kabul.  The 
merchants  are  pleased  because  through  supersti- 
tion they  imagine  that  such  mad  fellows  bring 
good-fortune." 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  Border.  I 
would  have  prayed  for  them,  but,  that  night,  a 
real  King  died  in  Europe,  and  demanded  on  obit- 
uary notice. 


The  wheel  of  the  world  swings  through  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  409 

same  phases  again  and  again.  Summer  passed 
and  winter  thereafter,  and  came  and  passed 
again.  The  daily  paper  continued  and  I  with  it, 
and  upon  the  third  summer  there  fell  a  hot  night, 
a  night-issue,  and  a  strained  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  be  telegraphed  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  exactly  as  had  happened  before.  A  few 
great  men  had  died  in  the  past  two  years,  the 
machines  worked  with  more  clatter,  and  some  of 
the  trees  in  the  Office  garden  were  a  few  feet 
taller.     But  that  was  all  the  difference. 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went 
through  just  such  a  scene  as  I  have  already  de- 
scribed. The  nervous  tension  was  stronger  than 
it  had  been  two  years  before,  and  I  felt  the  heat 
more  acutely.  At  three  o'clock  I  cried,  "Print 
off,"  and  turned  to  go,  when  there  crept  to  my 
chair  what  was  left  of  a  man.  He  was  bent  into 
a  circle,  his  head  was  sunk  between  his  shoul- 
ders, and  he  moved  his  feet  one  over  the  other 
like  a  bear.  I  could  hardly  see  whether  he 
walked  or  crawled — this  rag-wrapped,  whining 
cripple  who  addressed  me  by  name,  crying  that 
he  was  come  back.  "Can  you  give  me  a  drink .^" 
he  whimpered.  "  For  the  Lord's  sake,  give  me  a 
drink! " 

I  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following 
with  groans  of  pain,  and  I  turned  up  the  lamp. 

"Don't  you  know  me  ?"  he  gasped,  dropping 


410  Indian  Tales 

into  a  chair,  and  he  turned  his  drawn  face, 
surmounted  by  a  shock  of  grey  hair,  to  the 
light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently.  Once  before  had  I 
seen  eyebrows  that  met  over  the  nose  in  an  inch- 
broad  black  band,  but  for  the  life  of  me  1  could 
not  tell  where. 

"1  don't  know  you,"  1  said,  handing  him  the 
whiskey.     "  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shivered 
in  spite  of  the  suffocating  heat. 

"I've  come  back,"  he  repeated;  "and  I  was 
the  King  of  Kafiristan — me  and  Dravot — crowned 
Kings  we  was!  In  this  office  we  settled  it — you 
setting  there  and  giving  us  the  books.  I  am 
Peachey  —  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan,  and 
you've  been  setting  here  ever  since — O  Lord!" 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished,  and  ex- 
pressed my  feelings  accordingly. 

"It's  true,"  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry  cackle, 
nursing  his  feet,  which  were  wrapped  in  rags. 
"True  as  gospel.  Kings  we  were,  with  crowns 
upon  our  heads — me  and  Dravot — poor  Dan — oh, 
poor,  poor  Dan,  that  would  never  take  advice, 
not  though  I  begged  of  him!  " 

"Take  the  whiskey,"  1  said,  "and  take  your 
own  time.  Tell  me  all  you  can  recollect  of 
everything  from  beginning  to  end.  You  got 
across  the  border  on  your  camels,  Dravot  dressed 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  ^n 

as  a  mad  priest  and  you  his  servant.  Do  you  re- 
member that?" 

"I  ain't  mad — yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way  soon. 
Of  course  I  remember.  Keep  looking  at  me,  or 
maybe  my  words  will  go  all  to  pieces.  Keep 
lool^ing  at  me  in  my  eyes  and  don't  say  anything." 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face  as 
steadily  as  I  could.  He  dropped  one  hand  upon 
the  table  and  I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist.  It  was 
twisted  like  a  bird's  claw,  and  upon  the  back 
was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond-shaped  scar. 

"No,  don't  look  there.  Look  at  me,"  said 
Carnehan. 

"That  comes  afterward,  but  for  the  Lord's 
sake  don't  distrack  me.  We  left  with  that  cara- 
van, me  and  Dravot  playing  all  sorts  of  antics  to 
amuse  the  people  we  were  with.  Dravot  used 
to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evenings  when  all  the 
people  was  cooking  their  dinners — cooking  their 
dinners,  and  .  .  .  what  did  they  do  then .? 
They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks  that  went  into 
Dravot's  beard,  and  we  all  laughed — fit  to  die. 
Little  red  fires  they  was,  going  into  Dravot's  big 
red  beard — so  funny."  His  eyes  left  mine  and 
he  smiled  foolishly. 

"You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that 
caravan,"  I  said,  at  a  venture,  "  after  you  had  lit 
those  fires.  To  Jagdallah,  where  you  turned  off 
to  try  to  get  into  Kafiristan." 


412  Indian  Tales 

"No,  we  didn't  neither.  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  We  turned  off  before  Jagdallak,  be- 
cause we  heard  the  roads  was  good.  But  they 
wasn't  good  enough  for  our  two  camels — mine 
and  Dravot's.  When  we  left  the  caravan,  Dravot 
took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too,  and  said  we 
would  be  heathen,  because  the  Kafirs  didn't 
allow  Mohammedans  to  talk  to  them.  So  we 
dressed  betwixt  and  between,  and  such  a  sight 
as  Daniel  Dravot  I  never  saw  yet  nor  expect  to 
see  again.  He  burned  half  his  beard,  and  slung 
a  sheep-skin  over  his  shoulder,  and  shaved  his 
head  into  patterns.  He  shaved  mine,  too,  and 
made  me  wear  outrageous  things  to  look  like  a 
heathen.  That  was  in  a  most  mountaineous 
country,  and  our  camels  couldn't  go  along  any 
more  because  of  the  mountains.  They  were  tall 
and  black,  and  coming  home  1  saw  them  fight 
like  wild  goats — there  are  lots  of  goats  in  Kafir- 
istan.  And  these  mountains,  they  never  keep 
still,  no  more  than  the  goats.  Always  fighting 
they  are,  and  don't  let  you  sleep  at  night." 

"Take  some  more  whiskey,"  I  said,  very 
slowly.  "  What  did  you  and  Daniel  Dravot  do 
when  the  camels  could  go  no  further  because  of 
the  rough  roads  that  led  into  Kafiristan  ?" 

"What  did  which  do.^  There  was  a  party 
called  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan  that  was  with 
Dravot.     Shall  I  tell  you  about  him  .?    He  died 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  413 

out  there  in  the  cold.  Slap  from  the  bridge  fell 
old  Peachey,  turning  and  twisting  in  the  air  like 
a  penny  whirligig  that  you  can  sell  to  the  Amir. 
— No;  they  was  two  for  three  ha'pence,  those 
whirligigs,  or  1  am  much  mistal<.en  and  woful 
sore.  And  then  these  camels  were  no  use,  and 
Peachey  said  to  Dravot — '  For  the  Lord's  sake, 
let's  get  out  of  this  before  our  heads  are  chopped 
off,'  and  with  that  they  killed  the  camels  all 
among  the  mountains,  not  having  anything  in 
particular  to  eat,  but  first  they  took  off  the  boxes 
with  the  guns  and  the  ammunition,  till  two  men 
came  along  driving  four  mules.  Dravot  up  and 
dances  in  front  of  them,  singing, — *  Sell  me  four 
Mules.'  Says  the  first  man, — '  If  you  are  rich 
enough  to  buy,  you  are  rich  enough  to  rob; '  but 
before  ever  he  could  put  his  hand  to  his  knife, 
Dravot  breaks  his  neck  over  his  knee,  and  the 
other  party  runs  away.  So  Carnehan  loaded  the 
mules  with  the  rifles  that  was  taken  off  the 
camels,  and  together  we  starts  forward  into 
those  bitter  cold  mountaineous  parts,  and  never  a 
road  broader  than  the  back  of  your  hand." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  1  asked  him  if 
he  could  remember  the  nature  of  the  country 
through  which  he  had  journeyed. 

"  ]  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  1  can,  but  my 
head  isn't  as  good  as  it  might  be.  They  drove 
nails   through   it  to   make  me  hear  better  how 


414  Indian  Tales 

Dravot  died.  The  country  was  mountaineous 
and  the  mules  were  most  contrary,  and  the  inhab- 
itants was  dispersed  and  solitary.  They  went  up 
and  up,  and  down  and  down,  and  that  other 
party,  Carnehan,  was  imploring  of  Dravot  not  to 
sing  and  whistle  so  loud,  for  fear  of  bringing 
down  the  tremenjus  avalanches.  But  Dravot  says 
that  if  a  King  couldn't  sing  it  wasn't  worth  being 
King,  and  whacked  the  mules  over  the  rump,  and 
never  took  no  heed  for  ten  cold  days.  We  came 
to  a  big  level  valley  all  among  the  mountains,  and 
the  mules  were  near  dead,  so  we  killed  them,  not 
having  anything  in  special  for  them  or  us  to  eat. 
We  sat  upon  the  boxes,  and  played  odd  and  even 
with  the  cartridges  that  was  jolted  out. 

"Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran 
down  that  valley,  chasing  twenty  men  with  bows 
and  arrows,  and  the  row  was  tremenjus.  They 
was  fair  men — fairer  than  you  or  me — with 
yellow  hair  and  remarkable  well  built.  Says 
Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns — '  This  is  the  begin- 
ning of  the  business.  We'll  fight  for  the  ten 
men,'  and  with  that  he  fires  two  rifles  at  the 
twenty  men,  and  drops  one  of  them  at  two 
hundred  yards  from  the  rock  where  we  was  sit- 
ting. The  other  men  began  to  run,  but  Carnehan 
and  Dravot  sits  on  the  boxes  picking  them  off  at 
all  ranges,  up  and  down  the  valley.  Then  we 
goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that  had  run  across  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  .j^ 

snow  too,  and  they  fires  a  footy  little  arrow  at 
us.  Dravot  he  shoots  above  their  heads  and 
they  all  falls  down  flat.  Then  he  walks  over 
them  and  kicks  them,  and  then  he  lifts  them  up 
and  shakes  hands  all  round  to  make  them  friendly 
like.  He  calls  them  and  gives  them  the  boxes  to 
carry,  and  waves  his  hand  for  all  the  world  as 
though  he  was  King  already.  They  takes  the 
boxes  and  him  across  the  valley  and  up  the  hill 
into  a  pine  wood  on  the  top,  where  there  was 
half  a  dozen  big  stone  idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to 
the  biggest — a  fellow  they  call  Imbra — and  lays 
a  rifle  and  a  cartridge  at  his  feet,  rubbing  his  nose 
respectful  with  his  own  nose,  patting  him  on  the 
head,  and  saluting  in  front  of  it.  He  turns  round 
to  the  men  and  nods  his  head,  and  says, — *  That's 
all  right.  I'm  in  the  know  too,  and  all  these  old 
jim-jams  are  my  friends.'  Then  he  opens  his 
mouth  and  points  down  it,  and  when  the  first 
man  brings  him  food,  he  says — '  No; '  and  when 
the  second  man  brings  him  food,  he  says — 'No;' 
but  when  one  of  the  old  priests  and  the  boss  of 
the  village  brings  him  food,  he  says — 'Yes;' 
very  haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That  was  how 
we  came  to  our  first  village,  without  any  trouble, 
just  as  though  we  had  tumbled  from  the  skies. 
But  we  tumbled  from  one  of  those  damned  rope- 
bridges,  you  see,  and  you  couldn't  expect  a  man 
to  laugh  much  after  that." 


4i6  Indian  Tales 

"Take  some  more  whiskey  and  go  on,"  I  said. 
''That  was  the  first  village  you  came  into.  How 
did  you  get  to  be  King  ?  " 

"1  wasn't  King,"  said  Carnehan.  "Dravot  he 
was  the  King,  and  a  handsome  man  he  looked 
with  the  gold  crown  on  his  head  and  all.  Him 
and  the  other  party  stayed  in  that  village,  and 
every  morning  Dravot  sat  by  the  side  of  old 
Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and  worshipped. 
That  was  Dravot's  order.  Then  a  lot  of  men 
came  into  the  valley,  and  Carnehan  and  Dravot 
picks  them  off  with  the  rifles  before  they  knew 
where  they  was,  and  runs  down  into  the  valley 
and  up  again  the  other  side,  and  finds  another 
village,  same  as  the  first  one,  and  the  people  all 
falls  down  flat  on  their  faces,  and  Dravot  says, — 
'  Now  what  is  the  trouble  between  you  two  vil- 
lages?' and  the  people  points  to  a  woman,  as 
fair  as  you  or  me,  that  was  carried  off,  and 
Dravot  takes  her  back  to  the  first  village  and 
counts  up  the  dead — eight  there  was.  For  each 
dead  man  Dravot  pours  a  little  milk  on  the 
ground  and  waves  his  arms  like  a  whirligig 
and  'That's  all  right,'  says  he.  Then  he  and 
Carnehan  takes  the  big  boss  of  each  village  by 
the  arm  and  walks  them  down  into  the  valley, 
and  shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line  with  a 
spear  right  down  the  valley,  and  gives  each  a  sod 
of  turf  from  both  sides  o'  the  line.     Then  all  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  417 

people  comes  down  and  shouts  like  the  devil  and 
all,  and  Dravot  says, — '  Go  and  dig  the  land,  and 
be  fruitful  and  multiply,'  which  they  did,  though 
they  didn't  understand.  Then  we  asks  the 
names  of  things  in  their  lingo — bread  and  water 
and  fire  and  idols  and  such,  and  Dravot  leads  the 
priest  of  each  village  up  to  the  idol,  and  says  he 
must  sit  there  and  judge  the  people,  and  if  any- 
thing goes  wrong  he  is  to  be  shot. 

"Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the  land 
in  the  valley  as  quiet  as  bees  and  much  prettier, 
and  the  priests  heard  all  the  complaints  and  told 
Dravot  in  dumb  show  what  it  was  about. 
'  That's  just  the  beginning,'  says  Dravot.  '  They 
think  we're  Gods.'  He  and  Carnehan  picks  out 
twenty  good  men  and  shows  them  how  to  click 
off  a  rifle,  and  form  fours,  and  advance  in  line, 
and  they  was  very  pleased  to  do  so,  and  clever 
to  see  the  hang  of  it.  Then  he  takes  out  his  pipe 
and  his  baccy-pouch  and  leaves  one  at  one  village 
and  one  at  the  other,  and  off  we  two  goes  to  see 
what  was  to  be  done  in  the  next  valley.  That 
was  all  rock,  and  there  was  a  little  village  there, 
and  Carnehan  says, — 'Send  'em  to  the  old  valley 
to  plant,'  and  takes  'em  there  and  gives  'em  some 
land  that  wasn't  took  before.  They  were  a  poor 
lot,  and  we  blooded  'em  with  a  kid  before  let- 
ting 'em  into  the  new  Kingdom.  That  was  to 
impress  the  people,  and  then  they  settled  down 


4i8  Indian  Tales 

quiet,  and  Camehan  went  back  to  Dravot  who 
had  got  into  another  valley,  all  snow  and  ice  and 
most  mountaineous.  There  was  no  people  there 
and  the  Army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot  shoots  one  of 
them,  and  goes  on  till  he  finds  some  people  in  a 
village,  and  the  Army  explains  that  unless  the 
people  wants  to  be  killed  they  had  better  not 
shoot  their  little  matchlocks;  for  they  had  match- 
locks. We  makes  friends  with  the  priest  and  I 
stays  there  alone  with  two  of  the  Army,  teaching 
the  men  how  to  drill,  and  a  thundering  big  Chief 
comes  across  the  snow  with  kettle-drums  and 
horns  twanging,  because  he  heard  there  was  a 
new  God  kicking  about.  Carnehan  sights  for 
the  brown  of  the  men  half  a  mile  across  the 
snow  and  wings  one  of  them.  Then  he  sends  a 
message  to  the  Chief  that,  unless  he  wished  to  be 
killed,  he  must  come  and  shake  hands  with  me 
and  leave  his  arms  behind.  The  chief  comes 
alone  first,  and  Carnehan  shakes  hands  with  him 
and  whirls  his  arms  about,  same  as  Dravot  used, 
and  very  much  surprised  that  Chief  was,  and 
strokes  my  eyebrows.  Then  Carnehan  goes 
alone  to  the  Chief,  and  asks  him  in  dumb  show 
if  he  had  an  enemy  he  hated.  '  I  have,'  says  the 
Chief.  So  Carnehan  weeds  out  the  pick  of  his 
men,  and  sets  the  two  of  the  Army  to  show 
them  drill  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  men 
can  manoeuvre  about  as  well  as  Volunteers.     Sc 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  419 

he  marches  with  the  Chief  to  a  great  big  plain  on 
the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  the  Chief's  men 
rushes  into  a  village  and  takes  it;  we  three 
Martinis  firing  into  the  brown  of  the  enemy.  So 
we  took  that  village  too,  and  I  gives  the  Chief  a 
rag  from  my  coat  and  says,  '  Occupy  till  I  come: ' 
which  was  scriptural.  By  way  of  a  reminder, 
when  me  and  the  Army  was  eighteen  hundred 
yards  away,  I  drops  a  bullet  near  him  standing 
on  the  snow,  and  all  the  people  falls  flat  on  their 
faces.  Then  I  sends  a  letter  to  Dravot,  wherever 
he  be  by  land  or  by  sea." 

At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of 
train  I  interrupted, — "How  could  you  write  a 
letter  up  yonder.^" 

"The  letter  ?— Oh  .'—The  letter!  Keep  look- 
ing at  me  between  the  eyes,  please,  it  was  a 
string-talk  letter,  that  we'd  learned  the  way  of  it 
from  a  blind  beggar  in  the  Punjab." 

I  remember  that  there  had  once  come  to  the 
office  a  blind  man  with  a  knotted  twig  and  a 
piece  of  string  which  he  wound  round  the  twig 
according  to  some  cypher  of  his  own.  He  could, 
after  the  lapse  of  days  or  hours,  repeat  the  sen- 
tence which  he  had  reeled  up.  He  had  reduced 
the  alphabet  to  eleven  primitive  sounds;  and  tried 
to  teach  me  his  method,  but  failed. 

"I  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot,"  said  Carnehan; 
"and  told  him  to  come  back  because  this  King- 


420  Indian  Tales 

dom  was  growing  too  big  for  me  to  handle,  and 
then  1  struck  for  the  first  valley,  to  see  how  the 
priests  were  working.  They  called  the  village 
we  took  along  with  the  Chief,  Bashkai,  and  the 
first  village  we  took,  Er-Heb,  The  priests  at  Er- 
Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but  they  had  a  lot  of 
pending  cases  about  land  to  show  me,  and  some 
men  from  another  village  had  been  firing  arrows 
at  night.  I  went  out  and  looked  for  that  village 
and  fired  four  rounds  at  it  from  a  thousand  yards. 
That  used  all  the  cartridges  I  cared  to  spend, 
and  ,1  waited  for  Dravot,  who  had  been  away 
two  or  three  months,  and  I  kept  my  people 
quiet. 

"One  morning  1  heard  the  devil's  own  noise 
of  drums  and  horns,  and  Dan  Dravot  marches 
down  the  hill  with  his  Army  and  a  tail  of  hun- 
dreds of  men,  and,  which  was  the  most  amazing 
— a  great  gold  crown  on  his  head.  '  My  Gord, 
Carnehan,'  says  Daniel,  'this  is  a  tremenjus 
business,  and  we've  got  the  whole  country  as 
far  as  it's  worth  having.  I  am  the  son  of 
Alexander  by  Queen  Semiramis,  and  you're  my 
younger  brother  and  a  God  too!  It's  the  biggest 
thing  we've  ever  seen.  I've  been  marching  and 
fighting  for  six  weeks  with  the  Army,  and  every 
footy  little  village  for  fifty  miles  has  come  in 
rejoiceful;  and  more  than  that,  I've  got  the  key 
of  the  whole  show,  as  you'll  see,  and  I've  got  a 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  421 

crown  for  you!  I  told  'em  to  make  two  of 'em 
at  a  place  called  Shu,  where  the  gold  lies  in  the 
rock  like  suet  in  mutton.  Gold  I've  seen,  and 
turquoise  I've  kicked  out  of  the  cliffs,  and  there's 
garnets  in  the  sands  of  the  river,  and  here's  a 
chunk  of  amber  that  a  man  brought  me.  Call  up 
all  the  priests  and,  here,  take  your  crown.' 

"One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag  and  I 
slips  the  crown  on.  It  was  too  small  and  too 
heavy,  but  1  wore  it  for  the  glory.  Hammered 
gold  it  was — five  pound  weight,  like  a  hoop  of  a 
barrel. 

"  '  Peachey,' says  Dravot,  'we  don't  want  to 
fight  no  more.  The  Craft's  the  trick  so  help  me! ' 
and  he  brings  forward  that  same  Chief  that  I  left 
at  Bashkai — Billy  Fish  we  called  him  afterward, 
because  he  was  so  like  Billy  Fish  that  drove  the 
big  tank-engine  at  Mach  on  the  Bolan  in  the  old 
days.  '  Shake  hands  with  him,'  says  Dravot,  and 
1  shook  hands  and  nearly  dropped,  for  Billy  Fish 
gave  me  the  Grip.  1  said  nothing,  but  tried  him 
with  the  Fellow  Craft  Grip.  He  answers,  all 
right,  and  1  tried  the  Master's  Grip,  but  that  was 
a  slip.  'A  Fellow  Craft  he  is!'  I  says  to  Dan. 
'Does  he  know  the  word.^'  'He  does,'  says 
Dan,  'and  all  the  priests  know.  It's  a  miracle! 
The  Chiefs  and  the  priests  can  work  a  Fellow 
Craft  Lodge  in  a  way  that's  very  like  ours,  and 
they've   cut  the  marks  on  the  rocks,  but  they 


422  Indian  Tales 

don't  know  the  Third  Degree,  and  they've  come 
to  find  out.  It's  Gord's  Truth.  I've  known  these 
long  years  that  the  Afghans  knew  up  to  the 
Fellow  Craft  Degree,  but  this  is  a  miracle.  A 
God  and  a  Grand-Master  of  the  Craft  am  1,  and  a 
Lodge  in  the  Third  Degree  1  will  open,  and  we'll 
raise  the  head  priests  and  the  Chiefs  of  the  vil- 
lages.' 

"  'It's  against  all  the  law,'  I  says,  'holding  a 
Lodge  without  warrant  from  any  one;  and  we 
never  held  office  in  any  Lodge.' 

'"It's  a  master-stroke  of  policy,'  says  Dravot. 
'It  means  running  the  country  as  easy  as  a  four- 
wheeled  bogy  on  a  down  grade.  We  can't  stop 
to  inquire  now,  or  they'll  turn  against  us.  I've 
forty  Chiefs  at  my  heel,  and  passed  and  raised 
according  to  their  merit  they  shall  be.  Billet 
these  men  on  the  villages  and  see  that  we  run  up 
a  Lodge  of  some  kind.  The  temple  of  Imbra 
will  do  for  the  Lodge-room.  The  women  must 
make  aprons  as  you  show  them.  I'll  hold  a 
levee  of  Chiefs  to-night  and  Lodge  to-morrow.' 

"  I  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn't  such 
a  fool  as  not  to  see  what  a  pull  this  Craft  busi- 
ness gave  us.  I  showed  the  priests'  families 
how  to  make  aprons  of  the  degrees,  but  for 
Dravot's  apron  the  blue  border  and  marks  was 
made  of  turquoise  lumps  on  white  hide,  not 
Cloth.     We  took  a  great  square  stone  in  the  tem- 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  423 

pie  for  the  Master's  chair,  and  little  stones  for 
the  officers'  chairs,  and  painted  the  black  pave- 
ment with  white  squares,  and  did  what  we  could 
to  make  things  regular. 

"At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on 
the  hillside  with  big  bonfires,  Dravot  gives  out 
that  him  and  me  were  Gods  and  sons  of  Alex- 
ander, and  Past  Grand-Masters  in  the  Craft,  and 
was  come  to  make  Kafiristah  a  country  where 
every  man  should  eat  in  peace  and  drink  in  quiet, 
and  specially  obey  us.  Then  the  Chiefs  come 
round  to  shake  hands,  and  they  was  so  hairy 
and  white  and  fair  it  was  just  shaking  hands  with 
old  friends.  We  gave  them  names  according  as 
they  was  like  men  we  had  known  in  India — Billy 
Fish,  Holly  Dilworth,  Pikky  Kergan  that  was 
Bazar-master  when  I  was  at  Mhow,  and  so  on 
and  so  on. 

"  The  most  amazing  miracle  was  at  Lodge  next 
night.  One  of  the  old  priests  was  watching  us 
continuous,  and  1  felt  uneasy,  for  I  knew  we'd 
have  to  fudge  the  Ritual,  and  I  didn't  know  what 
the  men  knew.  The  old  priest  was  a  stranger 
come  in  from  beyond  the  village  of  Bashkai. 
The  minute  Dravot  puts  on  the  Master's  apron 
that  the  girls  had  made  for  him,  the  priest  fetches 
a  whoop  and  a  howl,  and  tries  to  overturn  the 
stone  that  Dravot  was  sitting  on.  'It's  all  up 
now,'  1  says.     '  That  comes  of  meddling  with  the 


424  Indian  Tales 

Craft  without  warrant!'  Dravot  never  winked 
an  eye,  not  when  ten  priests  took  and  tilted  over 
the  Grand-Master's  chair — which  was  to  say  the 
stone  of  Imbra.  The  priest  begins  rubbing  the 
bottom  end  of  it  to  clear  away  the  black  dirt, 
and  presently  he  shows  all  the  other  priests  the 
Master's  Mark,  same  as  was  on  Dravot's  apron, 
cut  into  the  stone.  Not  even  the  priests  of  the 
temple  of  Imbra  knew  it  was  there.  The  old 
chap  falls  flat  on  his  face  at  Dravot's  feet  and 
kisses  'em.  'Luck  again,'  says  Dravot,  across  the 
Lodge  to  me,  'they  say  it's  the  missing  Mark 
that  no  one  could  understand  the  why  of.  We're 
more  than  safe  now.'  Then  he  bangs  the  butt 
of  his  gun  for  a  gavel  and  says: — '  By  virtue  of 
the  authority  vested  in  me  by  my  own  right  hand 
and  the  help  of  Peachey,  I  declare  myself  Grand- 
Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in  Kafiristan  in  this  the 
Mother  Lodge  o'  the  country,  and  King  of  Kafir- 
istan equally  with  Peachey! '  At  that  he  puts  on 
his  crown  and  I  puts  on  mine — I  was  doing  Senior 
Warden — and  we  opens  the  Lodge  in  most  ample 
form.  It  was  a  amazing  miracle!  The  priests 
moved  in  Lodge  through  the  first  two  degrees 
almost  without  telling,  as  if  the  memory  was 
coming  back  to  them.  After  that,  Peachey  and 
Dravot  raised  such  as  was  worthy — high  priests 
and  Chiefs  of  far-off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was  the 
first,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out  of 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  425 

him.  It  was  not  in  any  way  accoiding  to  Ritual, 
but  it  served  our  turn.  We  didn't  raise  more 
than  ten  of  the  biggest  men  because  we  didn't 
want  to  mai<e  the  Degree  common.  And  they 
was  clamoring  to  be  raised. 

"  '  In  another  six  months,'  says  Dravot,  '  we'll 
hold  another  Communication  and  see  how  you 
are  working.'  Then  he  asks  them  about  their 
villages,  and  learns  that  they  was  fighting  one 
against  the  other  and  were  fair  sick  and  tired  of 
it.  And  when  they  wasn't  doing  that  they  was 
fighting  with  the  Mohammedans.  '  You  can  fight 
those  when  they  come  into  our  country,'  says 
Dravot.  '  Tell  off  every  tenth  man  of  your  tribes 
for  a  Frontier  guard,  and  send  two  hundred  at  a 
time  to  this  valley  to  be  drilled.  Nobody  is  going 
to  be  shot  or  speared  any  more  so  long  as  he  does 
well,  and  I  know  that  you  won't  cheat  me  be- 
cause you're  white  people — sons  of  Alexander — 
and  not  like  common,  black  Mohammedans.  You 
are  my  people  and  by  God,'  says  he,  running  off 
into  English  at  the  end — '  I'll  make  a  damned  fine 
Nation  of  you,  or  I'll  die  in  the  making! ' 

"  I  can't  tell  all  we  did  for  the  next  six  months 
because  Dravot  did  a  lot  1  couldn't  see  the  hang 
of,  and  he  learned  their  lingo  in  a  way  I  never 
could.  My  work  was  to  help  the  people  plough, 
and  now  and  again  go  out  with  some  of  the 
Army  and  see  what  the  other  villages  were  doing. 


426  Indian  Tales 

and  make  'em  throw  rope-bridges  across  the  ra- 
vines which  cut  up  the  country  horrid.  Dravot 
was  very  kind  to  me,  but  when  he  walked  up 
and  down  in  the  pine  wood  pulling  that  bloody 
red  beard  of  his  with  both  fists  I  knevv^  he  was 
thinking  plans  I  could  not  advise  him  about,  and 
I  just  waited  for  orders. 

"  But  Dravot  never  showed  me  disrespect  be- 
fore the  people.  They  were  afraid  of  me  and  the 
Army,  but  they  loved  Dan.  He  was  the  best  of 
friends  with  the  priests  and  the  Chiefs;  but  any 
one  could  come  across  the  hills  with  a  complaint 
and  Dravot  would  hear  him  out  fair,  and  call 
four  priests  together  and  say  what  was  to  be 
done.  He  used  to  call  in  Billy  Fish  from  Bashkai, 
and  Pikky  Kergan  from  Shu,  and  an  old  Chief 
we  called  Kafuzelum — it  was  like  enough  to  his 
real  name — and  hold  councils  with  'em  when 
there  was  any  fighting  to  be  done  in  small  vil- 
lages. That  was  his  Council  of  War,  and  the 
four  priests  of  Bashkai,  Shu,  Khawak,  and  Ma- 
dora  was  his  Privy  Council.  Between  the  lot  of 
'em  they  sent  me,  with  forty  men  and  twenty 
rifles,  and  sixty  men  carrying  turquoises,  into  the 
Ghorband  country  to  buy  those  hand-made  Mar- 
tini rifles,  that  come  out  of  the  Amir's  workshops 
at  Kabul,  from  one  of  the  Amir's  Herati  regi- 
ments that  would  have  sold  the  very  teeth  out  of 
their  mouths  for  turquoises. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  427 

"I  stayed  in  Ghorband  a  month,  and  gave  the 
Governor  there  the  pick  of  my  basl<ets  for  hush- 
money,  and  bribed  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment 
some  more,  and,  between  the  two  and  the  tribes- 
people,  we  got  more  than  a  hundred  hand-made 
Martinis,  a  hundred  good  Kohat  Jezails  that'll 
throw  to  six  hundred  yards,  and  forty  man-loads 
of  very  bad  ammunition  for  the  rifles.  I  came 
back  with  what  I  had,  and  distributed  'em  among 
the  men  that  the  Chiefs  sent  to  me  to  drill. 
Dravot  was  too  busy  to  attend  to  those  things, 
but  the  old  Army  that  we  first  made  helped  me, 
and  we  turned  out  five  hundred  men  that  could 
drill,  and  two  hundred  that  knew  how  to  hold 
arms  pretty  straight.  Even  those  cork-screwed, 
hand-made  guns  was  a  miracle  to  them.  Dravot 
talked  big  about  powder-shops  and  factories, 
walking  up  and  down  in  the  pine  wood  when 
the  winter  was  coming  on. 

*"  I  won't  make  a  Nation, '  says  he.  '  I'll  make 
an  Empire!  These  men  aren't  niggers;  they're 
English!  Look  at  their  eyes — look  at  their 
mouths.  Look  at  the  way  they  stand  up.  They 
sit  on  chairs  in  their  own  houses.  They're  the 
Lost  Tribes,  or  something  like  it,  and  they've 
grown  to  be  English.  I'll  take  a  census  in  the 
spring  if  the  priests  don't  get  frightened.  There 
must  be  a  fair  two  million  of  'em  in  these  hills. 
The  villages  are  full  0'  little  children.     Two  mil- 


428  Indian   Tales 

lion  people — two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
fighting  men — and  all  English!  They  only  want 
the  rifles  and  a  little  drilling.  Two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  men,  ready  to  cut  in  on  Russia's 
right  flank  when  she  tries  for  India!  Peachey, 
man/  he  says,  chewing  his  beard  in  great  hunks, 
'we  shall  be  Emperors — Emperors  of  the  Earth! 
Rajah  Brooke  will  be  a  suckling  to  us.  I'll  treat 
with  the  Viceroy  on  equal  terms.  I'll  ask  him  to 
send  me  twelve  picked  English — twelve  that  I 
know  of — to  help  us  govern  a  bit.  There's 
Mackray,  Sergeant-pensioner  at  Segowli — many's 
the  good  dinner  he's  given  me,  and  his  wife  a 
pair  of  trousers.  There's  Donkin,  the  Warder  of 
Tounghoo  Jail;  there's  hundreds  that  I  could  lay 
my  hand  on  if  I  was  in  India.  The  Viceroy  shall 
do  it  for  me.  I'll  send  a  man  through  in  the 
spring  for  those  men,  and  I'll  write  for  a  dispen- 
sation from  the  Grand  Lodge  for  what  I've  done 
as  Grand-Master.  That— and  all  the  Sniders 
that'll  be  thrown  out  when  the  native  troops  in 
India  take  up  the  Martini.  They'll  be  worn 
smooth,  but  they'll  do  for  fighting  in  these  hills. 
Twelve  English,  a  hundred  thousand  Sniders  run 
through  the  Amir's  country  in  driblets — I'd  be 
content  with  twenty  thousand  in  one  year — and 
we'd  be  an  Empire,  When  everything  was 
shipshape,  I'd  hand  over  the  crown — this  crown 
I'm   wearing   now — to   Queen   Victoria    on   my 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  429 

knees,  and  she'd  say:  "Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel 
Dravot."  Oh,  it's  big!  It's  big,  I  tell  you!  But 
there's  so  much  to  be  done  in  every  place — 
Bashkai,  Khawak.  Shu,  and  everywhere  else.' 

"'What  is  it?'  I  says.  'There  are  no  more 
men  coming  in  to  be  drilled  this  autumn.  Look 
at  those  fat,  black  clouds.  They're  bringing  the 
snow.' 

"  'It  isn't  that,'  says  Daniel,  putting  his  hand 
very  hard  on  my  shoulder;  'and  I  don't  wish  to 
say  anything  that's  against  you,  for  no  other  liv- 
ing man  would  have  followed  me  and  made  me 
what  I  am  as  you  have  done.  You're  a  first-class 
Commander-in-Chief,  and  the  people  know  you; 
but — it's  a  big  country,  and  somehow  you  can't 
help  me,  Peachey,  in  the  way  I  want  to  be 
helped.' 

"'Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then!'  I  said, 
and  I  was  sorry  when  1  made  that  remark,  but  it 
did  hurt  me  sore  to  find  Daniel  talking  so  supe- 
rior when  I'd  drilled  all  the  men,  and  done  all  he 
told  me. 

"'Don't  let's  quarrel,  Peachey,'  says  Daniel, 
without  cursing.  '  You're  a  King  too,  and  the 
half  of  this  Kingdom  is  yours;  but  can't  you  see, 
Peachey,  we  want  cleverer  men  than  us  now — 
three  or  four  of  'em,  that  we  can  scatter  about 
for  our  Deputies.     It's  a  hugeous  great  State,  and 

can't  always  tell  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  I 


430  Indian  Tales 

haven't  time  for  all  I  want  to  do,  and  here's  the 
winter  coming  on  and  all.'  He  put  half  his  beard 
into  his  mouth,  and  it  was  as  red  as  the  gold  of 
his  crown. 

"'I'm  sorry,  Daniel,'  says  I.  '/'ve  done  all  I 
could.  I've  drilled  the  men  and  shown  the 
people  how  to  stack  their  oats  better;  and  I've 
brought  in  those  tinware  rifles  from  Ghorband — 
but  1  know  what  you're  driving  at.  I  take  it 
Kings  always  feel  oppressed  that  way.' 

"'There's  another  thing  too,'  says  Dravot, 
walking  up  and  down.  '  The  winter's  coming 
and  these  people  won't  be  giving  much  trouble, 
and  if  they  do  we  can't  move  about.  I  want  a 
wife.' 

"'For  Gord's  sake  leave  the  women  alone!' 
I  says.  '  We've  both  got  all  the  work  we  can, 
though  I  am  a  fool.  Remember  the  Contrack, 
and  keep  clear  o'  women.' 

'•  'The  Contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time  as 
we  was  Kings;  and  Kings  we  have  been  these 
months  past,'  says  Dravot,  weighing  his  crown 
in  his  hand.  '  You  go  get  a  wife  too,  Peachey — 
a  nice,  strappin',  plump  girl  that'll  keep  you 
warm  in  the  winter.  They're  prettier  than 
English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the  pick  of  'em. 
Boil  'em  once  or  twice  in  hot  water,  and  they'll 
come  as  fair  as  chicken  and  ham.' 

"  '  Don't  tempt  me! '  I  says.     '  I  will  not  have 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  43 1 

any  dealings  with  a  woman  not  till  we  are  a 
dam'  side  more  settled  than  we  are  now.  I've 
been  doing  the  work  0'  two  men,  and  you've 
been  doing  the  work  o'  three.  Let's  lie  off  a  bit, 
and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better  tobacco  from 
Afghan  country  and  run  in  some  good  liquor; 
but  no  women.' 

"  '  Who's  talking  0'  women  ? '  says  Dravot.  '  I 
said  wife — a  Queen  to  breed  a  King's  son  for  the 
King,  A  Queen  out  of  the  strongest  tribe,  that'll 
make  them  your  blood-brothers,  and  that'll  lie  by 
your  side  and  tell  you  all  the  people  thinks  about 
you  and  their  own  affairs.     That's  what  1  want.' 

"  '  Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  woman  I 
kept  at  Mogul  Serai  when  I  was  a  plate-layer.?' 
says  1.  '  A  fat  lot  0'  good  she  was  to  me.  She 
taught  me  the  lingo  and  one  or  two  other  things; 
but  what  happened  ?  She  ran  away  with  the 
Station  Master's  servant  and  half  my  month's 
pay.  Then  she  turned  up  at  Dadur  Junction  in 
tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had  the  impidence  to 
say  I  was  her  husband — all  among  the  drivers  ir. 
the  running-shed! ' 

"'We've  done  with  that,'  says  Dravot. 
'These  women  are  whiter  than  you  or  me,  and 
a  Queen  I  will  have  for  the  winter  months.' 

"  'For  the  last  time  o'  asking,  Dan,  do  not,'  I 
says.  '  It'll  only  bring  us  harm.  The  Bible  say!, 
that   Kings    ain't    to  waste    their    strength    on 


432  Indian  Tales 

women,  'specially  when  mey've  got  a  new  raw 
Kingdom  to  work  over.' 

"  '  For  tlie  last  time  of  answering  1  will,'  said 
Dravot,  and  he  went  away  through  the  pine-trees 
looking  like  a  big  red  devil.  The  low  sun  hit 
his  crown  and  beard  on  one  side  and  the  two 
blazed  like  hot  coals. 

"But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan 
thought.  He  put  it  before  the  Council,  and  there 
was  no  answer  till  Billy  Fish  said  that  he'd  better 
ask  the  girls.  Dravot  damned  them  all  round. 
'What's  wrong  with  me.?'  he  shouts,  standing 
by  the  idol  Imbra.  '  Am  I  a  dog  or  am  1  not 
enough  of  a  man  for  your  wenches .?  Haven't  I 
put  the  shadow  of  my  hand  over  this  country  } 
Who  stopped  the  last  Afghan  raid.?'  It  was  me 
really,  but  Dravot  was  too  angry  to  remember. 
'Who  brought  your  guns.?  Who  repaired  the 
bridges .?  Who's  the  Grand-Master  of  the  sign 
cut  in  the  stone?'  and  he  thumped  his  hand  on 
the  block  that  he  used  to  sit  on  in  Lodge,  and  at 
Council,  which  opened  like  Lodge  always.  Billy 
Fish  said  nothing  and  no  more  did  the  others. 
'Keep  your  hair  on,  Dan,' said  I;  'and  ask  the 
girls.  That's  how  it's  done  at  Home,  and  these 
people  are  quite  English.' 

'"The  marriage  of  the  King  is  a  matter  of 
State,'  says  Dan,  in  a  white-hot  rage,  for  he 
could  feel,  I  hope,  that  he  was  going  against  his 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  433 

better  mind.  He  walked  out  of  the  Council- 
room,  and  the  others  sat  still,  looking  at  the 
ground. 

"  'Billy  Fish,'  says  1  to  the  Chief  of  Bashkai, 
'  what's  the  difficulty  here  .^  A  straight  answer 
to  a  true  friend.'  'You  know,'  says  Billy  Fish. 
'How  should  a  man  tell  you  who  know  every- 
thing }  How  can  daughters  of  men  marry  Gods 
or  Devils.?    It's  not  proper.' 

"I  remembered  something  like  that  in  the 
Bible;  but  if,  after  seeing  us  as  long  as  they  had, 
they  still  believed  we  were  Gods,  it  wasn't  for 
me  to  undeceive  them. 

"'A  God  can  do  anything,' says  I.  'If  the 
King  is  fond  of  a  girl  he'll  not  let  her  die.' 
'She'll  have  to,' said  Billy  Fish.  'There  are  all 
sorts  of  Gods  and  Devils  in  these  mountains,  and 
now  and  again  a  girl  marries  one  of  them  and 
isn't  seen  any  more.  Besides,  you  two  know 
the  Mark  cut  in  the  stone.  Only  the  Gods  know 
that.  We  thought  you  were  men  till  you 
showed  the  sign  of  the  Master.' 

"  I  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about 
the  loss  of  the  genuine  secrets  of  a  Master-Mason 
at  the  first  go-off;  but  I  said  nothing.  All  that 
night  there  was  a  blowing  of  horns  in  a  little 
dark  temple  half-way  down  the  hill,  and  I  heard 
a  girl  crying  fit  to  die.  One  of  the  priests  told  us 
that  she  was  being  prepared  to  marry  the  Kiiig. 


434  Indian   Talei, 

"Til  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind,'  says 
Dan,  '  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  cus- 
toms, but  I'll  take  my  own  wife.'  'The  girl's  a 
little  bit  afraid,'  says  the  priest,  'She  thinks 
she's  going  to  die,  and  they  are  a-heartening  of 
her  up  down  in  the  temple.' 

"  *  Hearten  her  very  tender,  then,'  says  Dravot, 
'or  I'll  n^arten  you  with  the  butt  of  a  gun  so 
that  you'll  never  want  to  be  heartened  again.' 
He  lick  d  hi^  lips,  did  Dan,  and  stayed  up  walk- 
ing about  more  than  half  the  night,  thinking  of 
th3  v/ifc  that  he  was  going  to  get  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  '.vpsn't  any  means  comfortable,  for  I 
knew  that  dealings  with  a  woman  in  foreign 
parts,  though  you  was  a  crowned  King  twenty 
time:,  ^ver,  could  not  but  be  risky.  I  got  up 
very  early  in  the  morning  while  Dravot  was 
asleep,  and  I  saw  the  priests  talking  together  in 
whispers,  and  the  Chiefs  talking  together  too, 
and  they  looked  at  m:  out  of  the  corners  of  their 
eyes, 

"'What  is  up,  Fish,?'  I  says  to  the  Bashkai 
man,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  his  furs  and  look- 
ing splendid  to  behold, 

"  '  I  can't  rightly  say,'  says  he;  ' but  if  you  can 
induce  the  King  to  drop  all  this  nonsense  about 
marriage,  you'll  be  doing  him  and  me  and  your- 
self a  great  service,' 

"'That  I  do  believe,'  says  I,     'But  sure,  you 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  435 

know,  Billy,  as  well  as  me,  having  fought  against 
and  for  us,  that  the  King  and  me  are  nothing 
more  than  two  of  the  finest  men  that  God  Al- 
mighty ever  made.  Nothing  more,  1  do  assure 
you.' 

"'That  may  be,'  says  Billy  Fish,  'and  yet  I 
should  be  sorry  if  it  was.'  He  sinks  his  head 
upon  his  great  fur  cloak  for  a  minute  and  thinks. 
'King,'  says  he,  'be  you  man  ^r  God  or  Devil, 
I'll  stick  by  you  to-day.  1  have  twenty  of  my 
men  with  me,  and  they  will  follow  me.  We'll 
go  to  Bashkai  until  the  storm  blows  over.' 

"A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and 
everything  was  white  except  the  greasy  fat 
clouds  that  blew  down  and  down  from  the  north. 
Dravot  came  out  with  his  crown  on  his  head, 
swinging  his  arms  and  stamping  his  feet,  and 
looking  more  pleased  than  Punch. 

"  '  For  the  last  time,  drop  it,  Dan,'  says  I,  in  a 
whisper.  '  Billy  Fish  here  says  that  there  will  be 
a  row.' 

"'A  row  among  my  people!'  says  Dravot. 
'Not  much.  Peachey,  you're  a  fool  not  to  get  a 
wife  too.  Where's  the  girl } '  says  he,  with  a 
voice  as  loud  as  the  braying  of  a  jackass.  '  Call 
up  all  the  Chiefs  and  priests,  and  let  the  Emperor 
see  if  his  wife  suits  him.' 

"There  was  no  need  to  call  anyone.  They 
were  all  there  leaning  on  their  guns  and  spears 


43^  Indian  Tales 

round  the  clearing  in  the  centre  of  the  pine  wood. 
A  deputation  of  priests  went  down  to  the  little 
temple  to  bring  up  the  girl,  and  the  horns  blew 
up  tit  to  wake  the  dead.  Billy  Fish  saunters 
round  and  gets  as  close  to  Daniel  as  he  could, 
and  behind  him  stood  his  twenty  men  with 
matchlocks.  Not  a  man  of  them  under  six  feet. 
I  was  next  to  Dravot,  and  behind  me  was  twenty 
men  of  the  regular  Army.  Up  comes  the  girl, 
and  n  strapping  wench  she  was,  covered  with 
silver  and  turquoises  but  white  as  death,  and 
looking  back  every  minute  at  the  priests. 

'"She'll  do,'  said  Dan,  looking  her  over. 
'What's  to  be  afraid  of,  lass?  Come  and  kiss 
me.'  He  puts  his  arm  round  her.  She  shuts  her 
eyes,  gives  a  bit  of  a  squeak,  and  down  goes  her 
face  in  the  side  of  Dan's  flaming  red  beard. 

"  'The  slut's  bitten  me! '  says  he,  clapping  his 
hand  to  his  neck,  and,  sure  enough,  his  hand  was 
red  with  blood.  Billy  Fish  and  two  of  his  match- 
lock-men catches  hold  of  Dan  by  the  shoulders 
and  drags  him  into  the  Bashkai  lot,  while  the 
priests  howls  in  their  lingo, — 'Meither  God  nor 
Devil  but  a  man!'  I  was  all  taken  aback,  for  a 
priest  cut  at  me  in  front,  and  the  Army  behind 
began  firing  into  the  Bashkai  men. 

'"God  A-mighty!'  says  Dan.  'What  is  the 
meaning  o'  this  ?' 

"  'Come  back!    Come  away! '  says  Billy  Fish. 


The  Man  14^ ho  Would  be  King  437 

'  Ruin  and  Mutiny  is  the  matter.  We'll  break  for 
Bashkai  if  we  can.' 

"I  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my 
men — the  men  o'  the  regular  Army — but  it  was 
no  use,  so  !  fired  into  the  brown  of  'em  with  an 
English  Martini  and  drilled  three  beggars  in  a 
line.  The  valley  was  f'.ll  .f  shouting,  howling 
creatures,  and  every  soul  was  shrieking,  '  Not  a 
God  nor  a  Devil  but  nly  r.  man! '  The  Bashkai 
troops  stuc''  to  Billy  Fish  all  they  were  worth, 
but  their  matchlocks  wasn't  half  as  good  as  the 
Kabul  breech-load -fs,  and  four  of  them  dropped. 
Dan  was  bellowing  1'  a  bull,  for  he  was  very 
wrathy;  and  Billy  Fis'  had  a  hard  job  to  prevent 
him  running  out  at  the  crowd. 

"  'We  can't  stand,'  says  Billy  Fish.  'Make  a 
run  for  it  down  the  valley!  The  whole  place  is 
against  us.'  The  matchlock-men  ran,  and  we 
went  down  the  valley  in  spite  of  Dravofs  prot- 
estations. He  was  swearing  horribly  and  cry- 
ing out  that  he  was  a  King.  The  priests  rolled 
great  stones  on  us,  and  the  regular  Army  fired 
hard,  and  there  wasn't  more  than  six  men,  not 
counting  Dan,  Billy  Fish,  and  Me,  that  came  down 
to  the  bottom  of  the  valley  alive. 

"Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns  in 
the  temple  blew  again.  '  Come  away — for  Cord's 
sake  come  away!'  says  Billy  Fish.  'They'll 
send  runners  out  to  all  the  villages  before  ever 


438  Indian  Tales 

we  get  to  Bashkai.  I  can  protect  you  there,  but 
I  can't  do  anything  now.' 

"  My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go  mad 
in  his  head  from  that  hour.  He  stared  up*  and 
down  Hke  a  stuck  pig.  Then  he  was  all  for 
walking  back  alone  and  killing  the  priests  with 
his  bare  hands;  which  he  could  have  done.  '  An 
Emperor  am  1,'  says  Daniel,  *  and  next  year  I  shall 
be  a  Knight  of  the  Queen.' 

"'AH  right,  Dan,'  says  I;  'but  come  along 
now  while  there's  time.' 

"'It's  your  fault,' says  he,  'for  not  looking 
after  your  Army  better.  There  was  mutiny  in 
the  midst,  and  you  didn't  know — you  damned 
engine-driving,  plate-laying,  missionary 's-pass- 
hunting  hound!'  He  sat  upon  a  rock  and  called 
me  every  foul  name  he  could  lay  tongue  to.  I 
was  too  heart-sick  to  care,  though  it  was  all  his 
foolishness  that  brought  the  smash. 

"  '  I'm  sorry,  Dan,'  says  I,  'but  there's  no  ac- 
counting for  natives.  This  business  is  our  Fifty- 
Seven.  Maybe  we'll  make  something  out  of  it 
yet,  when  we've  got  to  Bashkai.' 

'* '  Let's  get  to  Bashkai,  then,'  says  Dan,  'and, 
by  God,  when  I  come  back  here  again  I'll  sweep 
the  valley  so  there  isn't  a  bug  in  a  blanket  left! ' 

"We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night 
Dan  was  stumping  up  and  down  on  the  snow, 
chewing  his  beard  and  muttering  to  himself. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  43^ 

"  'There's  no  hope  o'  getting  clear,'  said  Billy 
Fish.  '  The  priests  will  have  sent  runners  to  the 
villages  to  say  that  you  are  only  men.  Why 
didn't  you  stick  on  as  Gods  till  things  was  more 
settled.!^  I'm  a  dead  man,' says  Billy  Fish,  and 
he  throws  himself  down  on  the  snow  and  begins 
to  pray  to  his  Gods. 

"Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  country 
— all  up  and  down,  no  level  ground  at  ail,  and  no 
food  either.  The  six  Bashkai  men  looked  at 
Billy  Fish  hungry-wise  as  if  they  wanted  to  ask 
something,  but  they  said  never  a  word.  At 
noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat  mountain  all 
covered  with  snow,  and  when  we  climbed  up 
into  it,  behold,  there  was  an  Army  in  position 
waiting  in  the  middle! 

"'The  runners  have  been  very  quick,'  says 
Billy  Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a  laugh.  '  They  are 
waiting  for  us.' 

"Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the 
enemy's  side,  and  a  chance  shot  took  Daniel  in 
the  calf  of  the  leg.  That  brought  him  to  his 
senses.  He  looks  across  the  snow  at  the  Army, 
and  sees  the  rifles  that  v/e  had  brought  into  the 
country. 

"  'We're  done  for,'  says  he.  'They  are  Eng- 
lishmen, these  people, — and  it's  my  blasted  non- 
sense that  has  brought  you  to  this.  Get  back, 
Billy   Fish,   and   take  your  men  away;    you've 


440  Indian  Tales 

done  what  you  could,  and  now  cut  for  it.  Car- 
nehan,' says  he,  'shake  hands  with  me  and  go 
along  with  Billy.  Maybe  they  won't  kill  you. 
I'll  go  and  meet  'em  alone.  It's  me  that  did  it. 
Me,  the  King! ' 

"'Go!'  says  I.  'Goto  Hell,  Dan.  I'm  with 
you  here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out,  and  we  two 
will  meet  those  folk.' 

"  '  I'm  ii  Chief,'  says  Billy  Fish,  quite  quiet.  '  I 
stay  with  you.     My  men  can  go.' 

"The  Bashkai  fellows  didn't  wait  for  a  second 
word  but  ran  off,  and  Dan  and  Me  and  Billy  Fish 
walked  across  to  where  the  drums  were  drum- 
ming and  the  horns  were  horning.  It  was  cold 
— awful  cold.  I've  got  that  cold  in  the  back  of 
my  head  now.    There's  a  lump  of  it  there," 

The  punknh-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep.  Two 
kerosene  lamps  were  blazing  in  the  office,  and 
the  perspiration  poured  down  my  face  and 
splashed  on  the  blotter  as  I  leaned  forward. 
Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I  feared  that  his 
mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my  face,  took  a  fresh 
grip  of  the  piteously  mangled  hands,  and  said: — 
"  What  happened  after  that }  " 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken 
the  clear  current. 

"What  was  you  pleased  to  say.?"  whined 
Carnehan.  "They  took  them  without  any 
sound.    Not  a  little  whisper  all  along  the  snow. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  441 

not  though  the  King  knocked  down  the  first 
man  that  set  hand  on  him — not  though  old 
Peachey  fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the  brown  of 
'em.  Not  a  single  solitary  sound  did  those 
swines  make.  They  just  closed  up  tight,  and  1 
tell  you  their  furs  stunk.  There  was  a  man 
called  Billy  Fish,  a  good  friend  of  us  all,  and 
they  cut  his  throat,  Sir,  then  and  there,  like  a 
pig;  and  the  King  kicks  up  the  bloody  snow  and 
says: — 'We've  had  a  dashed  fine  run  for  our 
money.  What's  coming  next.^'  But  Peachey, 
Peachey  Taliaferro,  I  tell  you.  Sir,  in  confidence 
as  betwixt  two  friends,  he  lost  his  head.  Sir. 
No,  he  didn't  neither.  The  King  lost  his  head, 
so  he  did,  all  along  o'  one  of  those  cunning  rope- 
bridges.  Kindly  let  me  have  the  paper-cutter, 
Sir.  It  tilted  this  way.  They  marched  him  a 
mile  across  that  snow  to  a  rope-bridge  over  a 
ravine  with  a  river  at  the  bottom.  You  may 
have  seen  such.  They  prodded  him  behind  like 
an  ox.  'Damn  your  eyes!'  says  the  King. 
'D'you  suppose  I  can't  die  like  a  gentleman?' 
He  turns  to  Peachey — Peachey  that  was  crying 
like  a  child.  '  I've  brought  you  to  this,  Peachey,' 
says  he.  '  Brought  you  out  of  your  happy  life 
to  be  killed  in  Kafiristan,  where  you  was  late 
Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Emperor's  forces. 
Say  you  forgive  me,  Peachey.'  'I  do,'  says 
Peachey.     '  Fully  and  freely  do   1   forgive  you, 


442  Indian  Tales 

Dan.'  'Shake  hands,  Peachey,' says  he.  'I'm 
going  now.'  Out  he  goes,  looking  neither  right 
nor  left,  and  when  he  was  plumb  in  the  middle 
of  those  dizzy  dancing  ropes,  '  Cut,  you  beg- 
gars,' he  shouts;  and  they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell, 
turning  round  and  round  and  round  twenty 
thousand  miles,  for  he  took  half  an  hour  to  fall 
till  he  struck  the  water,  and  1  could  see  his 
body  caught  on  a  rock  with  the  gold  crown  close 
beside. 

"  But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey 
between  two  pine  trees.?  They  crucified  him, 
Sir,  as  Peachey's  hand  will  show.  They  used 
wooden  pegs  for  his  hands  and  his  feet;  and  he 
didn't  die.  He  hung  there  and  screamed,  and 
they  took  him  down  next  day,  and  said  it  was  a 
miracle  that  he  wasn't  dead.  They  took  him 
down — poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn't  done  them 
any  harm — that  hadn't  done  them  any.    .     .     ." 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly, 
wiping  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  scarred 
hands  and  moaning  like  a  child  for  som.e  ten 
minutes. 

"They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in  the 
temple,  because  they  said  he  was  more  of  a  God 
than  old  Daniel  that  was  a  man.  Then  they 
turned  him  out  on  the  snow,  and  told  him  to  go 
home,  and  Peachey  came  home  in  about  a  year, 
begging  along  the  roads  quite  safe:  for  Daniel 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  443 

Dravot  he  walked  before  and  said: — 'Come 
along,  Peachey.  it's  a  big  thing  we're  doing.' 
The  mountains  they  danced  at  night,  and  the 
mountains  they  tried  to  fall  on  Peachey's  head, 
but  Dan  he  held  up  his  hand,  and  Peachey  came 
along  bent  double.  He  never  let  go  of  Dan's 
hand,  and  he  never  let  go  of  Dan's  head.  They 
gave  it  to  him  as  a  present  in  the  temple,  to 
remind  him  not  to  come  again,  and  though  the 
crown  was  pure  gold,  and  Peachey  was  starving, 
never  would  Peachey  sell  the  same.  You  knew 
Dravot,  Sir!  You  knew  Right  Worshipful  Brother 
Dravot!    Look  at  him  now!  " 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his  bent 
waist;  brought  out  a  black  horsehair  bag  em- 
broidered with  silver  thread;  and  shook  there- 
from on  to  my  table — the  dried,  withered  head 
of  Daniel  Dravot!  The  morning  sun  that  had 
long  been  paling  the  lamps  struck  the  red  beard 
and  blind  sunken  eyes;  struck,  too,  a  heavy 
circlet  of  gold  studded  with  raw  turquoises,  that 
Carnehan  placed  tenderly  on  the  battered  tem- 
ples. 

"You  behold  now,"  said  Carnehan,  "the 
Emperor  in  his  habit  as  he  lived — the  King  of 
Kafiristan  with  his  crown  upon  his  head.  Poor 
old  Daniel  that  was  a  monarch  once! " 

I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements  mani- 
fold, I  recognized  the  head  of  the  man  of  Mar- 


444  Indian   Tales 

war  Junction.  Carnehan  rose  to  go.  I  attempted 
to  stop  him.  He  was  not  fit  to  walk  abroad. 
"  Let  me  take  away  the  whiskey,  and  give  me  a 
little  money,"  he  gasped.  "1  was  a  King  once. 
I'll  go  to  the  Deputy  Commissioner  and  ask  to  set 
in  the  Poorhouse  till  I  get  my  health.  No,  thank 
you,  I  can't  wait  till  you  get  a  carriage  for  me. 
I've  urgent  private  affairs — in  the  south — at  Mar- 
war.  " 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed  in 
the  direction  of  the  Deputy  Commissioner's 
house.  That  day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to  go 
down  the  blinding  hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a  crooked 
man  crawling  along  the  white  dust  of  the  road- 
side, his  hat  in  his  hand,  quavering  dolorously; 
after  the  fashion  of  street-singers  at  Home. 
There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and  he  was  out  of 
all  possible  earshot  of  the  houses.  And  he  sang 
through  his  nose,  turning  his  head  from  right  to 
left: 

"  The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  golden  crown  to  gain  ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar — 
Who  follows  in  his  train  ?  " 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor 
wretch  into  my  carriage  and  drove  him  off  to  the 
nearest  missionary  for  eventual  transfer  to  the 
Asylum.  He  repeated  the  hymn  twice  while  he 
was  with   me  whom   he   did   not  in   the  least 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  445 

recognize,  and  I  left  him  singing  it  to  the  mis- 
sionary. 

Two  days  later  I  inquired  after  his  welfare  of 
the  Superintendent  of  the  Asylum. 

"  He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sunstroke. 
He  died  early  yesterday  morning,"  said  the 
Superintendent.  "  Is  it  true  that  he  was  half  an 
hour  bareheaded  in  the  sun  at  midday  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  but  do  you  happen  to  know  if 
he  had  anything  upon  him  by  any  chance  when 
he  died?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  said  the  Superin- 
tendent. 

And  there  the  matter  rests. 


THE  GATE  OF  THE  HUNDRED 
SORROWS 

If  I  can  attain  Heaven  for  a  pice,  why  should  you  be  envious? 

—  Opium  Smoker's  Proverb. 

THIS  is  no  work  of  mine.  My  friend,  Gabral 
Misquitta,  the  half-caste,  spoke  it  all,  be- 
tween moonset  and  morning,  six  weeks  before 
he  died;  and  I  took  it  down  from  his  mouth  as 
he  answered  my  questions.     So: 

It  lies  between  the  Coppersmith's  Gully  and 
the  pipe-stem  sellers'  quarter,  within  a  hundred 
yards,  too,  as  the  crow  flies,  of  the  Mosque  of 
Wazir  Khan.  1  don't  mind  telling  any  one  this 
much,  but  I  defy  him  to  find  the  Gate,  however 
well  he  may  think  he  knows  the  City.  You 
might  even  go  through  the  very  gully  it  stands 
in  a  hundred  times,  and  be  none  the  wiser.  We 
used  to  call  the  gully,  "  The  Gully  of  the  Black 
Smoke,"  but  its  native  name  is  altogether  differ- 
ent of  course.  A  loaded  donkey  couldn't  pass 
between  the  walls;  and,  at  one  point,  just  before 
you  reach  the  Gate,  a  bulged  house-front  makes 
people  go  along  all  sideways. 

It  isn't  really  a  gate  though.  It's  a  house.  Old 
446 


The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows  ^j 

Fung-Tching  had  it  first  five  years  ago.  He  was 
a  boot-maker  in  Calcutta.  Tiiey  say  that  he 
murdered  his  wife  there  when  he  was  drunk. 
That  was  why  he  dropped  bazar-rum  and  took 
to  the  Black  Smoke  instead.  Later  on,  he  came 
up  north  and  opened  the  Gate  as  a  house  where 
you  could  get  your  smoke  in  peace  and  quiet. 
Mind  you,  it  was  a  pukka,  respectable  opium- 
house,  and  not  one  of  those  stifling,  sweltering 
chandoo-khaiias,  that  you  can  find  all  over  the 
City.  No;  the  old  man  knew  his  business  thor- 
oughly, and  he  was  most  clean  for  a  Chinaman. 
He  was  a  one-eyed  little  chap,  not  much  more 
than  five  feet  high,  and  both  his  middle  fingers 
were  gone.  All  the  same,  he  was  the  handiest 
man  at  rolling  black  pills  1  have  ever  seen.  Never 
seemed  to  be  touched  by  the  Smoke,  either;  and 
what  he  took  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  was 
a  caution.  I've  been  at  it  five  years,  and  I  can 
do  my  fair  share  of  the  Smoke  with  any  one;  but 
1  was  a  child  to  Fung-Tching  that  way.  All  the 
same,  the  old  man  was  keen  on  his  money:  very 
keen;  and  that's  what  I  can't  understand.  I 
heard  he  saved  a  good  deal  before  he  died,  but 
his  nephew  has  got  all  that  now;  and  the  old 
man's  gone  back  to  China  to  be  buried. 

He  kept  the  big  upper  room,  where  his  best 
customers  gathered,  as  neat  as  a  new  pin.  In 
one  corner  used  to  stand  Fung-Tching's  Joss — 


448  Indian  Tales 

almost  as  ugly  as  Fung-Tching — and  there  were 
always  sticks  burning  under  his  nose;  but  you 
never  smelled  'em  when  the  pipes  were  going 
thick.  Opposite  the  Joss  was  Fung-Tching's 
coffin.  He  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  savings 
on  that,  and  whenever  a  new  man  came  to  the 
Gate  he  was  always  introduced  to  it.  It  was 
lacquered  black,  with  red  and  gold  writings  on 
it,  and  I've  heard  that  Fung-Tching  brought  it 
out  all  the  way  from  China.  I  don't  know 
whether  that's  true  or  not,  but  I  know  that,  if  I 
came  first  in  the  evening,  I  used  to  spread  my  mat 
just  at  the  foot  of  it.  It  was  a  quiet  corner,  you 
see,  and  a  sort  of  breeze  from  the  gully  came  in 
at  the  window  now  and  then.  Besides  the  mats, 
there  was  no  other  furniture  in  the  room — only 
the  coffin,  and  the  old  Joss  all  green  and  blue 
and  purple  with  age  and  polish. 

Fung-Tching  never  told  us  why  he  called  the 
place  "The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows."  (He 
was  the  only  Chinaman  I  know  who  used  bad- 
sounding  fancy  names.  Most  of  them  are  flow- 
ery. As  you'll  see  in  Calcutta.)  We  used  to 
find  that  out  for  ourselves.  Nothing  grows  on 
you  so  much,  if  you're  white,  as  the  Black 
Smoke.  A  yellow  man  is  made  different. 
Opiurn  doesn't  tell  on  him  scarcely  at  all; 
but  white  and  black  suffer  a  good  deal.  Of 
course,  there  are  some  people  that  the  Smoke 


The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows  449 

doesn't  touch  any  more  than  tobacco  would  at 
first.  They  just  doze  a  bit,  as  one  would  fall 
asleep  naturally,  and  next  morning  they  are  al- 
most fit  for  work.  Now,  1  was  one  of  that  sort 
when  I  began,  but  I've  been  at  it  for  five  years 
pretty  steadily,  and  it's  different  now.  There 
was  an  old  aunt  of  mine,  down  Agra  way,  and 
she  left  me  a  little  at  her  death.  About  sixty 
rupees  a  month  secured.  Sixty  isn't  much.  I 
can  recollect  a  time,  'seems  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago,  that  I  was  getting  my  three 
hundred  a  month,  and  pickings,  when  I  was 
working  on  a  big  timber-contract  in  Calcutta. 

I  didn't  stick  to  that  work  for  long.  The  Black 
Smoke  does  not  allow  of  much  other  business; 
and  even  though  I  am  very  little  affected  by  it,  as 
men  go  1  couldn't  do  a  day's  work  now  to  save 
my  life.  After  all,  sixty  rupees  is  what  I  want. 
When  old  Fung-Tching  was  alive  he  used  to 
draw  the  money  for  me,  give  me  about  half  of  it 
to  live  on  (1  eat  very  little),  and  the  rest  he  kept 
himself.  1  was  free  of  the  Gate  at  any  time  of 
the  day  and  night,  and  could  smoke  and  sleep 
there  when  1  liked,  so  I  didn't  care.  1  know  the 
old  man  made  a  good  thing  out  of  it;  but  that's 
no  matter.  Nothing  matters  much  to  me;  and 
besides,  the  money  always  came  fresh  and  fresh 
each  month. 

There  was  ten  of  us  met  at  the  Gate  when  the 


450  Indian  Tales 

place  was  first  opened.  Me,  and  two  Baboos 
from  a  Government  Office  somewhere  in  Anar- 
kulli,  but  they  got  the  sack  and  couldn't  pay  (no 
man  who  has  to  work  in  the  daylight  can  do  the 
Black  Smoke  for  any  length  of  time  straight  on) ; 
a  Chinaman  that  was  Fung-Tching's  nephew;  a 
bazar-woman  that  had  got  a  lot  of  money  some- 
how; an  English  loafer — Mac-Somebody  I  think, 
but  I  have  forgotten, — that  smoked  heaps,  but 
never  seemed  to  pay  anything  (they  said  he  had 
saved  Fung-Tching's  life  at  some  trial  in  Calcutta 
when  he  was  a  barrister) ;  another  Eurasian,  like 
myself,  from  Madras;  a  half-caste  woman,  and  a 
couple  of  men  who  said  they  had  come  from  the 
North.  I  think  they  must  have  been  Persians  or 
Afghans  or  something.  There  are  not  more  than 
five  of  us  living  now,  but  we  come  regular.  1 
don't  know  what  happened  to  the  Baboos;  but 
the  bazar-woman  she  died  after  six  months  of 
the  Gate,  and  I  think  Fung-Tching  took  her 
bangles  and  nose-ring  for  himself.  But  I'm  not 
certain.  The  Englishman,  he  drank  as  well  as 
smoked,  and  he  dropped  off.  One  of  the  Per- 
sians got  killed  in  a  row  at  night  by  the  big  well 
near  the  mosque  a  long  time  ago,  and  the  Police 
shut  up  the  well,  because  they  said  it  was  full 
of  foul  air.  They  found  him  dead  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  So  you  see,  there  is  only  me,  the  Chinaman, 
the  half-caste  woman  that  we  call  the  Memsahib 


The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows  45 1 

(she  used  to  live  with  Fung-Tching),  the  other 
Eurasian,  and  one  of  the  Persians.  The  Memsa- 
hib  looks  very  old  now.  I  think  she  was  a  young 
woman  when  the  Gate  was  opened;  but  we  are 
all  old  for  the  matter  of  that.  Hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  years  old.  It  is  very  hard  to  keep 
count  of  time  in  the  Gate,  and,  besides,  time 
doesn't  matter  to  me.  1  draw  my  sixty  rupees 
fresh  and  fresh  every  month.  A  very,  very  long 
vvhile  ago,  when  1  used  to  be  getting  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  rupees  a  month,  and  pickings,  on 
a  big  timber-contract  at  Calcutta,  I  had  a  wife  of 
sorts.  But  she's  dead  now.  People  said  that  I 
killed  her  by  taking  to  the  Black  Smoke.  Per- 
haps I  did,  but  it's  so  long  since  that  it  doesn't 
matter.  Sometimes  when  1  first  came  to  the 
Gate,  I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  it;  but  that's  all 
over  and  done  with  long  ago,  and  I  draw  my 
sixty  rupees  fresh  and  fresh  every  month,  and 
am  quite  happy.  Not  drunk  happy,  you  know, 
but  always  quiet  and  soothed  and  contented. 

How  did  I  take  to  it  ?  it  began  at  Calcutta.  I 
used  to  try  it  in  my  own  house,  just  to  see  what 
it  was  like.  1  never  went  very  far,  but  1  think, 
my  wife  must  have  died  then.  Anyhow,  I  found 
myself  here,  and  got  to  know  Fung-Tching.  I 
don't  remember  rightly  how  that  came  about; 
but  he  told  me  of  the  Gate  and  I  used  to  go  there, 
and,  somehow,  I  have  never  got  away  from  it 


452 


Indian  Tales 


since.  Mind  you,  thiough,  the  Gate  was  a  re- 
spectable place  in  Fung-Tching's  time  where  you 
could  be  comfortable,  and  not  at  all  like  the 
chandoo-khanas  where  the  niggers  go.  No;  it 
was  clean  and  quiet,  and  not  crowded.  Of 
course,  there  were  others  beside  us  ten  and  the 
man;  but  we  always  had  a  mat  apiece,  with  a 
wadded  woolen  headpiece,  all  covered  with 
black  and  red  dragons  and  things;  just  like  the 
coffin  in  the  corner. 

At  the  end  of  one's  third  pipe  the  dragons  used 
to  move  about  and  fight.  I've  watched  'em 
many  and  many  a  night  through.  I  used  to  reg- 
ulate my  Smoke  that  way,  and  now  it  takes  a 
dozen  pipes  to  make  'em  stir.  Besides,  they  are 
all  torn  and  dirty,  like  the  mats,  and  old  Fung- 
Tching  is  dead.  He  died  a  couple  of  years  ago, 
and  gave  me  the  pipe  I  always  use  now — a  silver 
one,  with  queer  beasts  crawling  up  and  down 
the  receiver-bottle  below  the  cup.  Before  that, 
I  think,  I  used  a  big  bamboo  stem  with  a  copper 
cup,  a  very  small  one,  and  a  green  jade  mouth- 
piece. It  was  a  little  thicker  than  a  walking- 
stick  stem,  and  smoked  sweet,  very  sweet. 
The  bamboo  seemed  to  suck  up  the  smoke.  Sil- 
ver doesn't,  and  I've  got  to  clean  it  out  now  and 
then,  that's  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  but  I  smoke 
it  for  the  old  man's  sake.  He  must  have  made  a 
good  thing  out  of  me,  but  he  always  gave  me 


The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows  453 

clean  mats  and  pillows,  and  the  best  stuff  you 
could  get  anywhere. 

When  he  died,  his  nephew  Tsin-ling  took  up 
the  Gate,  and  he  called  it  the  "Temple  of  the 
Three  Possessions";  but  we  old  ones  speak  of  it 
as  the  "  Hundred  Sorrows,"  all  the  same.  The 
nephew  does  things  very  shabbily,  and  I  think 
the  Memsahib  must  help  him.  She  lives  with 
him;  same  as  she  used  to  do  with  the  old  man. 
The  two  let  in  all  sorts  of  low  people,  niggers 
and  all,  and  the  Black  Smoke  isn't  as  good  as  it 
used  to  be.  I've  found  burned  bran  in  my  pipe 
over  and  over  again.  The  old  man  would  have 
died  if  that  had  happened  in  his  time.  Besides, 
the  room  is  never  cleaned,  and  all  the  mats  are 
torn  and  cut  at  the  edges.  The  coffin  is  gone — 
gone  to  China  again — with  the  old  man  and  two 
ounces  of  Smoke  inside  it,  in  case  he  should  want 
'em  on  the  way. 

The  Joss  doesn't  get  so  many  sticks  burned 
under  his  nose  as  he  used  to;  that's  a  sign  of  ill- 
luck,  as  sure  as  Death.  He's  all  brown,  too,  and 
no  one  ever  attends  to  him.  That's  the  Mem- 
sahib's  work,  1  know;  because,  when  Tsin-ling 
tried  to  burn  gilt  paper  before  him,  she  said  it 
was  a  waste  of  money,  and,  if  he  kept  a  stick 
burning  very  slowly,  the  Joss  wouldn't  know  the 
difference.  So  now  we've  got  the  sticks  mixed 
with  a  lot  of  glue,  and  they  take  half  an  hour 


454  Indian    Tales 

longer  to  burn,  and  smell  stinky.  Let  alone  the 
smell  of  the  room  by  itself.  No  business  can  get 
on  if  they  try  that  sort  of  thing.  The  Joss 
doesn't  like  it.  1  can  see  that.  Late  at  night, 
sometimes,  he  turns  all  sorts  of  queer  colors — 
blue  and  green  and  red — just  as  he  used  to  do 
when  old  Fung-Tching  was  alive;  and  he  rolls 
his  eyes  and  stamps  his  feet  like  a  devil. 

I  don't  know  why  I  don't  leave  the  place  and 
smoke  quietly  in  a  little  room  of  my  own  in  the 
bazar.  Most  like,  Tsin-ling  would  kill  me  if  I 
went  away — he  draws  my  sixty  rupees  now — 
and  besides,  it's  so  much  trouble,  and  I've  grown 
to  be  very  fond  of  the  Gate.  It's  not  much  to 
look  at.  Not  what  it  was  in  the  old  man's  time, 
but  1  couldn't  leave  it.  I've  seen  so  many  come 
in  and  out.  And  I've  seen  so  many  die  here  on 
the  mats  that  I  should  be  afraid  of  dying  in  the 
open  now.  I've  seen  some  things  that  people 
would  call  strange  enough;  but  nothing  is 
strange  when  you're  on  the  Black  Smoke,  except 
the  Black  Smoke.  And  if  it  was,  it  wouldn't 
matter.  Fung-Tching  used  to  be  very  particular 
about  his  people,  and  never  got  in  any  one  who'd 
give  trouble  by  dying  messy  and  such.  But  the 
nephew  isn't  half  so  careful.  He  tells  every- 
where that  he  keeps  a  "first-chop"  house. 
Never  tries  to  get  men  in  quietly,  and  make  them 
comfortable  like  Fung-Tching  did.     That's  why 


The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows  455 

the  Gate  is  getting  a  little  bit  more  known  than 
it  used  to  be.  Among  the  niggers  of  course. 
The  nephew  daren't  get  a  white,  or,  for  matter  of 
that,  a  mixed  skin  into  the  place.  He  has  to 
keep  us  three  of  course — me  and  the  Memsahib 
and  the  other  Eurasian.  We're  fixtures.  But  he 
wouldn't  give  us  credit  for  a  pipeful — not  for 
anything. 

One  of  these  days,  1  hope,  1  shall  die  in  the 
Gate.  The  Persian  and  the  Madras  man  are  ter- 
ribly shaky  now.  They've  got  a  boy  to  light 
their  pipes  for  them.  1  always  do  that  myself. 
Most  like,  1  shall  see  them  carried  out  before  me. 
I  don't  think  1  shall  ever  outli^'e  the  Memsahib  or 
Tsin-ling.  Women  last  longer  than  men  at  the 
Black  Smoke,  and  Tsin-ling  has  a  deal  of  the  old 
man's  blood  in  him,  though  he  does  smoke  cheap 
stuff.  The  bazar-woman  knew  when  she  was 
going  two  days  before  her  time;  and  she  died  on 
a  clean  mat  with  a  nicely  wadded  pillow,  and  the 
old  man  hung  up  her  pipe  just  above  the  Joss. 
He  was  always  fond  of  her,  I  fancy.-  But  he 
took  her  bangles  just  the  same. 

I  should  like  to  die  like  the  bazar-woman — on 
a  clean,  cool  mat  with  a  pipe  of  good  stuff  be- 
tween my  lips.  When  1  feel  I'm  going,  I  shall 
ask  Tsin-ling  for  them,  and  he  can  draw  my 
sixty  rupees  a  month,  fresh  and  fresh,  as  long  as 
he  pleases.     Then  I  shall  lie  back,  quiet  and  com- 


456  Indian  Tales 

fortable,  and  watch  the  black  and  red  dragons 
have  their  last  big  fight  together;  and  then  .  .  . 
Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  matters  much 
to  me — only  1  wish  Tsin-Iing  wouldn't  put  bran 
into  the  Black  Smoke. 


THE  INCARNATION  OF  KRISHNA 
MULVANEY 


Wohl  auf,  my  bully  cavaliers. 
We  ride  to  church  to-day, 

The  man  that  hasn't  got  a  horse 
Must  steal  one  straight  away. 


Be  reverent,  men,  remember 

This  is  a  Gottes  haus. 
Du,  Conrad,  cut  along  der  aisle 
And  schenck  der  whiskey  aus. 

Hans  Breitmann^s  Ride  to  Church. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  very  far  from  England, 
there  lived  three  men  who  loved  each 
other  so  greatly  that  neither  man  nor  woman 
could  come  between  them.  They  were  in  no 
sense  refined,  nor  to  be  admitted  to  the  outer- 
door  mats  of  decent  folk,  because  they  happened 
to  be  private  soldiers  in  Her  Majesty's  Army; 
and  private  soldiers  of  our  service  have  small 
time  for  self-culture.  Their  duty  is  to  keep  them- 
selves and  their  accoutrements  specklessly  clean, 
to  refrain  from  getting  drunk  more  often  than  is 
necessary,  to  obey  their  superiors,  and  to  pray  for 
457 


45^  Indian  Tales 

a  war.  All  these  things  my  friends  accomplished ; 
and  of  their  own  motion  threw  in  some  fighting- 
work  for  which  the  Army  Regulations  did  not 
call.  Their  fate  sent  them  to  serve  in  India, 
which  is  not  a  golden  country,  though  poets 
have  sung  otherwise.  There  men  die  with  great 
swiftness,  and  those  who  live  suffer  many  and 
curious  things.  1  do  not  think  that  my  friends 
concerned  themselves  much  with  the  social  or 
political  aspects  of  the  East.  They  attended  a 
not  unimportant  war  on  the  northern  frontier, 
another  one  on  our  western  boundary,  and  a 
third  in  Upper  Burma.  Then  their  regiment  sat 
still  to  recruit,  and  the  boundless  monotony  of 
cantonment  life  was  their  portion.  They  were 
drilled  morning  and  evening  on  the  same  dusty 
parade-ground.  They  wandered  up  and  down 
the  same  stretch  of  dusty  white  road,  attended 
the  same  church  and  the  same  grog-shop,  and 
slept  in  the  same  lime-washed  barn  of  a  barrack 
for  two  long  years.  There  was  Mulvaney,  the 
father  in  the  craft,  who  had  served  with  various 
regiments  from  Bermuda  to  Halifax,  old  in  war, 
scarred,  reckless,  resourceful,  and  in  his  pious 
hours  an  unequalled  soldier.  To  him  turned  for 
help  and  comfort  six  and  a  half  feet  of  slow- 
moving,  heavy-footed  Yorkshiremen,  born  on 
the  wolds,  bred  in  the  dales,  and  educated  chiefly 
among  the  carriers'  carts  at  the  back  of  York 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Miilvaney        459 

railway-station.  His  name  was  Learoyd,  and  his 
chief  virtue  an  unmitigated  patience  which  helped 
him  to  win  fights.  How  Ortheris,  a  fox-terrier 
of  a  Cockney,  ever  came  to  be  one  of  the  trio,  is 
a  mystery  which  even  to-day  I  cannot  explain. 
"There  was  always  three  av  us,"  Mulvaney  used 
to  say.  "An'  by  the  grace  av  God,  so  long  as 
our  service  lasts,  three  av  us  they'll  always  be. 
'Tis  betther  so." 

They  desired  no  companionship  beyond  their 
own,  and  it  was  evil  for  any  man  of  the  regi- 
ment who  attempted  dispute  with  them.  Phys- 
ical argument  was  out  of  the  question  as  regarded 
Mulvaney  and  the  Yorkshireman;  and  assault  on 
Ortheris  meant  a  combined  attack  from  these 
twain — a  business  which  no  five  men  were  anx- 
ious to  have  on  their  hands.  Therefore  they 
flourished,  sharing  their  drinks,  their  tobacco,  and 
their  money;  good  luck  and  evil;  battle  and  the 
chances  of  death;  life  and  the  chances  of  happi- 
ness from  Calicut  in  southern,  to  Peshawur  in 
northern  India. 

Through  no  merit  of  my  own  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  be  in  a  measure  admitted  to  their 
friendship — frankly  by  Mulvaney  from  the  be- 
ginning, sullenly  and  with  reluctance  by  Learoyd, 
and  suspiciously  by  Ortheris,  who  held  to  it  that 
no  man  not  in  the  Army  could  fraternize  with 
a  red-coat.     "Like  to  like,"  said  he.     "I'm  a 


460  Indian  Tales 

bloomin'  sodger — he's  a  bloomin'  civilian.  'Tain't 
natural — that's  all." 

But  that  was  not  all.  They  thawed  progress- 
ively, and  in  the  thawing  told  me  more  of  their 
lives  and  adventures  than  I  am  ever  likely  to 
write. 

Omitting  all  else,  this  tale  begins  with  the  La- 
mentable Thirst  that  was  at  the  beginning  of  First 
Causes.  Never  was  such  a  thirst — Mulvaney  told 
me  so.  They  kicked  against  their  compulsory 
virtue,  but  the  attempt  was  only  successful  in 
the  case  of  Ortheris.  He,  whose  talents  were 
many,  went  forth  into  the  highways  and  stole  a 
dog  from  a  "civilian" — videlicet,  some  one,  he 
knew  not  who,  not  in  the  Armv.  Now  that 
civilian  was  but  newly  connected  by  marriage 
with  the  colonel  of  the  regiment,  and  outcry  was 
made  from  quarters  least  anticipated  by  Ortheris, 
and,  in  the  end,  he  was  forced,  lest  a  worse  thing 
should  happen,  to  dispose  at  ridiculously  unre- 
munerative  rates  of  as  promising  a  small  terrier 
as  ever  graced  one  end  of  a  leading  string.  The 
purchase-money  was  barely  sufficient  for  one 
small  outbreak  which  led  him  to  the  guard-room. 
He  escaped,  however,  with  nothing  worse  than 
a  severe  reprimand,  and  a  few  hours  of  punish- 
ment drill.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  acquired  the 
reputation  of  being  ' '  the  best  soldier  of  his  inches  " 
in  the  regiment.     Mulvaney  had  taught  personal 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  MiUvaney        461 

cleanliness  and  efficiency  as  the  first  articles  of 
his  companions'  creed.  "A  dhirty  man,"  he  was 
used  to  say,  in  the  speech  of  his  kind,  "goes  to 
Clink  for  a  weakness  in  the  knees,  an'  is.coort- 
martialled  for  a"  pair  av  socks  missin';  but  a  clane 
man,  such  as  is  an  ornament  to  his  service — a 
man  whose-  buttons  are  gold,  whose  coat  is  wax 
upon  him,  an'  whose  'coutrements  are  widout  a 
S'pQck—that  man  may,  spakin'  in  reason,  do  fwhat 
he  likes  an'  dhrink  from  day  to  divil.  That's  the 
pride  av  bein'  dacint." 

We  sat  together,  upon  a  day,  in  the  shade  of 
a  ravine  far  from  the  barracks,  where  a  water- 
course used  to  run  in  rainy  weather.  Behind  us 
was  the  scrub  jungle,  in  which  jackals,  peacocks, 
the  grey  wolves  of  the  Northwestern  Provinces, 
and  occasionally  a  tiger  estrayed  from  Central 
India,  were  supposed  to  dwell.  In  front  lay  the 
cantonment,  glaring  white  under  a  glaring  sun; 
and  on  either  side  ran  the  broad  road  that  led  to 
Delhi. 

It  was  the  scrub  that  suggested  to  my  mind 
the  wisdom  of  Mulvaney  taking  a  day's  leave 
and  going  upon  a  shooting-tour.  The  peacock 
is  a  holy  bird  throughout  India,  and  he  who  slays 
one  is  in  danger  of  being  mobbed  bv  the  nearest 
villagers;  but  on  the  last  occasion  that  Mulvaney 
had  gone  forth,  he  had  contrived,  without  in  the 
least  offending  local  religious  susceptibilities,  to 


462  Indian  Tales 

return  with  six  beautiful  peacock  skins  which  he 
sold  to  profit.     It  seemed  just  possible  then  — 

"But  fwhat  manner  av  use  is  ut  to  me  goin' 
out  widout  a  dhrink?  The  ground's  powdher- 
dhry  underfoot,  an'  ut  gets  unto  the  throat  fit  to 
kill,"  wailed  Mulvaney,  looking  at  me  reproach- 
fully. "An'  a  peacock  is  not  a  bird  you  can 
catch  the  tail  av  onless  ye  run.  Can  a  man  run 
on  wather — an'  jungle- wather  too  .^" 

Ortheris  had  considered  the  question  in  all  its 
bearings.  He  spoke,  chewing  his  pipe-stem 
meditatively  the  while: 

"  Go  forth,  return  in  glory, 
To  Clusium's  royal  'ome  : 
An'  round  these  bloomin'  temples  'ang 
The  bloomin'  shields  o'  Rome, 

You  better  go.  You  ain't  like  to  shoot  yourself 
— not  while  there's  a  chanst  of  liquor.  Me  an' 
Learoyd  '11  stay  at  'ome  an'  keep  shop — 'case  o' 
anythin'  turnin'  up.  But  you  go  out  with  a  gas- 
pipe  gun  an'  ketch  the  little  peacockses  or  some- 
thin'.  You  kin  get  one  day's  leave  easy  as 
winkin'.  Go  along  an'  get  it,  an'  get  peacockses 
or  somethin'." 

"Jock,"  said  Mulvaney,  turning  to  Learoyd, 
who  was  half  asleep  under  the  shadow  of  the 
bank.     He  roused  slowly. 

"Sitha,  Mulvaaney,  go,"  said  he. 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Miilvaney        463 

And  Mulvaney  went;  cursing  his  allies  with 
Irish  fluency  and  barrack-room  point. 

"Take  note,"  said  he,  when  he  had  won  his 
holiday,  and  appeared  dressed  in  his  roughest 
clothes  with  the  only  other  regimental  fowling 
piece  in  his  hand.  "Take  note,  Jock,  an'  you 
Orth'ris,  I  am  goin'  in  the  face  av  my  own  will — 
all  for  to  please  you.  1  misdoubt  anythin'  will 
come  av  permiscuous  huntin'  afther  peacockses 
in  a  desolit  Ian';  an'  1  know  that  1  will  lie  down 
an'  die  wid  thirrrst.  Me  catch  peacockses  for 
you,  ye  lazy  scutts — an'  be  sacrificed  by  the  peas- 
anthry — Ugh  !  " 

He  waved  a  huge  paw  and  went  away. 

At  twilight,  long  before  the  appointed  hour,  he 
returned  empty-handed,  much  begrimed  with 
dirt. 

"  Peacockses  .^"  queried  Ortheris  from  the  safe 
rest  of  a  barrack-room  table  whereon  he  was 
smoking  cross-legged,  Learoyd  fast  asleep  on  a 
bench. 

"Jock,"  said  Mulvaney,  without  answering,  as 
he  stirred  up  the  sleeper.  "Jock,  can  ye  fight? 
Will  ye  fight.?" 

Very  slowly  the  meaning  of  the  words  com- 
municated itself  to  the  half-roused  man.  He 
understood — and  again — what  might  these  things 
mean  ?  Mulvaney  was  shaking  him  savagely. 
Meantime  the  men  in  the  room  howled  with  de- 


464  Indian  Tales 

light.  There  was  war  in  the  confederacy  at  last 
— war  and  the  breaking  of  bonds. 

Barrack-room  etiquette  is  stringent.  On  the 
direct  challenge  must  follow  the  direct  reply. 
This  is  more  binding  than  the  ties  of  tried  friend- 
ship. Once  again  Mulvaney  repeated  the  ques- 
tion. Learoyd  answered  by  the  only  means  in 
his  power,  and  so  swiftly  that  the  Irishman  had 
barely  time  to  avoid  the  blow.  The  laughter 
around  increased.  Learoyd  looked  bewilderedly 
at  his  friend — himself  as  greatly  bewildered. 
Ortheris  dropped  from  the  table  because  his 
world  was  falling. 

"Come  outside,"  said  Mulvaney,  and  as  the 
occupants  of  the  barrack-room  prepared  joyously 
to  follow,  he  turned  and  said  furiously,  "There 
will  be  no  fight  this  night — onless  any  wan  av 
you  is  wishful  to  assist.  The  man  that  does, 
follows  on." 

No  man  moved.  The  three  passed  out  into  the 
moonlight,  Learoyd  fumbling  with  the  buttons 
of  his  coat.  The  parade-ground  was  deserted 
except  for  the  scurrying  jackals.  Mulvaney's 
impetuous  rush  carried  his  companions  far  into 
the  open  ere  Learoyd  attempted  to  turn  round 
and  continue  the  discussion. 

"Be  still  now.  'Twas  my  fault  for  beginnin' 
things  in  the  middle  av  an  end,  Jock.  I  should 
ha'  comminst  wid  an  explanation;  but  Jock,  dear. 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Miilvaney       465 

on  your  sowl  are  ye  fit,  think  you,  for  the  finest 
fight  that  iver  was — betther  than  fightin'  me? 
Considher  before  ye  answer." 

More  than  ever  puzzled,  Learoyd  turned  round 
two  or  three  times,  felt  an  arm,  kicked  tenta- 
tively, and  answered,  "  Ah'm  fit."  He  was  ac- 
customed to  fight  blindly  at  the  bidding  of  the 
superior  mind. 

They  sat  them  down,  the  men  looking  on  from 
afar,  and  Mulvaney  untangled  himself  in  mighty 
words. 

"  Followin'  your  fools'  scheme  1  wint  out  into 
the  thrackless  desert  beyond  the  barricks.  An' 
there  1  met  a  pious  Hindu  dhriving  a  bullock- 
kyart.  1  tuk  ut  for  granted  he  wud  be  delighted 
for  to  convoy  me  a  piece,  an'  I  jumped  in  " — 

"  You  long,  lazy,  black-haired  swine,"  drawled 
Ortheris,  who  would  have  done  the  same  thing 
under  similar  circumstances. 

"'Twas  the  height  av  policy.  That  naygur- 
man  dhruv  miles  an'  miles — as  far  as  the  new 
railway  line  they're  buildin'  now  back  av  the 
Tavi  river.  '  'Tis  a  kyart  for  dhirt  only,'  says  he 
now  an'  again  timoreously,  to  get  me  out  av  ut. 
'  Dhirt  I  am,'  sez  I,  'an'  the  dhryest  that  you  iver 
kyarted.  Dhrive  on,  me  son,  an'  glory  be  wid 
you.'  At  that  I  wint  to  slape,  an'  took  no  heed 
till  he  pulled  up  on  the  embankmint  av  the  line 
where  the  coolies  were  pilin'  mud.     There  was  a 


466  Indian  Tales 

matther  av  two  thousand  coolies  on  that  line — 
you  remimber  that.  Prisintly  a  bell  rang,  an' 
they  throops  off  to  a  big  pay-shed.  '  Where's 
the  white  man  in  charge?'  sez  1  to  my  kyart- 
dhriver.  'In  the  shed,'  sez  he,  'engaged  on  a 
riffle.' — 'A  fwhat?'  sez  I.  'Riffle,'  sez  he. 
'  You  take  ticket.  He  take  money.  You  get 
nothin'.' — 'Oho!'  sez  I,  'that's  fwhat  the  shu- 
perior  an'  cultivated  man  calls  a  raffle,  me  misbe- 
guided  child  av  darkness  an'  sin.  Lead  on  to 
that  raffle,  though  fwhat  the  mischief  'tis  doin' 
so  far  away  from  uts  home — which  is  the  charity- 
bazaar  at  Christmas,  an'  the  colonel's  wife  grin- 
nin'  behind  the  tea-table — is  more  than  I  know.' 
Wid  that  I  wint  to  the  shed  an'  found  'twas  pay- 
day among  the  coolies.  Their  wages  was  on  a 
table  forninst  a  big,  fine,  red  buck  av  a  man — 
sivun  fut  high,  four  fut  wide,  an'  three  fut  thick, 
wid  a  fist  on  him  like  a  corn-sack.  He  was 
payin'  the  coolies  fair  an'  easy,  but  he  wud  ask 
each  man  if  he  wud  raffle  that  month,  an'  each 
man  sez,  'Yes,'  av  course.  Thin  he  wud  deduct 
from  their  wages  accordin'.  Whin  all  was  paid, 
he  filled  an  ould  cigar-box  full  av  gun-wads  an' 
scatthered  ut  among  the  coolies.  They  did  not 
take  much  joy  av  that  performince,  an'  small 
wondher.  A  man  close  to  me  picks  up  a  black 
gun-wad  an'  sings  out,  '  I  have  ut.' — '  Good  may 
ut  do  vou.'  %ez  I.    The  coolie  wint  forward  to 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Miilvaney        467 

this  big,  fine,  red  man,  who  threw  a  cloth  off  av 
the  most  sumpshus,  jooled,  enamelled  an'  vari- 
ously bedivilled  sedan-chair  I  iver  saw." 

"Sedan-chair!  Put  your 'ead  in  a  bag.  That 
was  a  palanquin.  Dont  yer  know  a  palanquin 
when  you  see  it .''"  said  Ortheris  with  great  scorn. 

"  I  chuse  to  call  ut  sedan  chair,  an'  chair  ut  shall 
be,  little  man,"  continued  the  Irishman.  "  'Twas 
a  most  amazin'  chair — all  lined  wid  pink  silk  an' 
fitted  wid  red  silk  curtains.  '  Here  ut  is,'  sez  the 
red  man.  '  Here  ut  is,'  sez  the  coolie,  an'  he 
grinned  weakly-ways.  'Is  ut  any  use  to  you?' 
sez  the  red  man.  'No,' sez  the  coolie;  'I'd  like 
to  make  a  presint  av  ut  to  you.' — '  1  am  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  accept  that  same,'  sez  the  red 
man;  an'  at  that  all  the  coolies  cried  aloud  in 
fwhat  was  mint  for  cheerful  notes,  an'  wint  back 
to  their  diggin',  lavin'  me  alone  in  the  shed.  The 
red  man  saw  me,  an'  his  face  grew  blue  on  his 
big,  fat  neck.  'Fwhat  d'you  want  here?'  sez 
he.  'Standin'-room  an'  no  more,'  sez  I,  'onless 
it  may  be  fwhat  ye  niver  had,  an'  that's  manners, 
ye  rafflin'  ruffian,'  for  I  was  not  goin'  to  have  the 
Service  throd  upon.  '  Out  of  this,' sez  he.  'I'm 
in  charge  av  this  section  av  construction.' — '  I'm 
in  charge  av  mesilf,'  sez  I,  'an'  ifs  like  I  will  stay 
a  while.  D'ye  raffle  much  in  these  parts  ? ' — 
'  Fwhat's  that  to  you  ? '  sez  he.  '  Nothin','  sez  I, 
'  but  a  great  dale  to  you,  for  begad  I'm  thinkin' 


4^8  Indian   Tales 

you  get  the  full  half  av  your  revenue  from  that 
sedan-chair.  Is  ut  always  raffled  so  ? '  I  sez,  an' 
wid  that  I  wint  to  a  coolie  to  ask  questions. 
Bhoys,  that  man's  name  is  Dearsley,  an'  he's  been 
rafflin'  that  ould  sedan-chair  monthly  this  matther 
av  nine  months.  Ivry  coolie  on  the  section  takes 
a  ticket — or  he  gives  'em  the  go — wanst  a  month 
on  pay-day.  Ivry  coolie  that  wins  ut  gives  ut 
back  to  him,  for  'tis  too  big  to  carry  away,  an' 
he'd  sack  the  man  that  thried  to  sell  ut.  That 
Dearsley  has  been  makin'  the  rowlin'  wealth  av 
Roshus  by  nefarious  rafflin'.  Think  av  the 
burnin'  shame  to  the  sufferin'  coolie-man  that 
the  army  in  Injia  are  bound  to  protect  an'  nourish 
in  their  bosoms!  Two  thousand  coolies  de- 
frauded wanst  a  month  ! " 

"  Dom  t'  coolies.  Has't  gotten  t'  cheer,  man  ?" 
said  Learoyd. 

"Hould  on.  Havin'  onearthed  this  amazin' 
an'  stupenjus  fraud  committed  by  the  man  Dears- 
ley,  1  hild  a  council  av  war;  he  thryin'  all  the 
time  to  sejuce  me  into  a  fight  wid  opprobrious 
language.  That  sedan-chair  niver  belonged  by 
right  to  any  foreman  av  coolies.  'Tis  a  king's 
chair  or  a  quane's.  There's  gold  on  ut  an'  silk 
an'  all  manner  av  trapesemints.  Bhoys,  'tis  not 
for  me  to  countenance  any  sort  av  wrong-doin' 
— me  bein'  the  ould  man — but — anyway  he  has 
had  ut  nine  months,  an'  he  dare  not  make  throuble 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        469 

av  ut  was  taken  from  him.  Five  miles  away,  or 
ut  may  be  six" — 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  the  jackals 
howled  merrily.  Learoyd  bared  one  arm,  and 
^oniemplated  it  in  the  moonlight.  Then  he  nod- 
ded partly  to  himself  and  partly  to  his  friends. 
Ortheris  wriggled  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"  1  thought  ye  wud  see  the  reasonableness  av 
ut,"  said  Mulvaney.  "1  make  bould  to  say  as 
much  to  the  man  before.  He  was  for  a  direct 
front  attack — fut,  horse,  an'  guns — an'  all  for 
nothin',  seein'  that  I  had  no  thransport  to  convey 
the  machine  away.  *  I  will  not  argue  wid  you,' 
sez  1,  '  this  day,  but  subsequintly.  Mister  Dearsley, 
me  rafflin'  jool,  we  talk  ut  out  lengthways.  'Tis 
no  good  policy  to  swindle  the  naygur  av  his 
hard-earned  emolumints,  an'  by  presint  informa- 
shin" — 'twas  the  kyart  man  that  tould  me — 
'ye've  been  perpethrating  that  same  for  nine 
months.  But  I'm  a  just  man,'  sez  I,  'an'  over- 
lookin'  the  presumpshin  that  yondher  settee  wid 
the  gilt  top  was  not  come  by  honust ' — at  that  he 
turned  sky-green,  so  I  knew  things  was  more 
thrue  than  tellable — '  not  come  by  honust.  I'm 
willin'  to  compound  the  felony  for  thi?  month's 
winnin's.' " 

"Ah!  Ho!  "  from  Learoyd  and  Ortheris. 

"That  man  Dearsley's  rushin'  on  his  fate,"  con- 
tinued  Mulvaney,  solemnly  wagging   his   head. 


470  Indian  Tales 

"All  Hell  had  no  name  bad  enough  for  me  that 
tide.  Faith,  he  called  me  a  robber!  Me!  that 
was  savin'  him  from  continuin'  in  his  evil  ways 
widout  a  remonstrince — an'  to  a  man  av  con- 
science a  remonstrince  may  change  the  chune  av 
his  life.  ''Tis  not  for  me  to  argue.'  sez  I, 
'  fwhatever  ye  are,  Mister  Dearsley,  but,  by  my 
hand,  I'll  take  away  the  temptation  for  you  that 
lies  in  that  sedan-chair.' — '  You  will  have  to  fight 
me  for  ut,'  sez  he,  *  for  well  I  know  you  will 
never  dare  make  report  to  any  one.' — '  Fight  I 
will,'  sez  I,  '  but  not  this  day,  for  I'm  rejuced  for 
want  av  nourishment.' — '  Ye're  an  ould  bould 
hand,'  sez  he,  sizin'  me  up  an'  down;  'an'  a  jool 
av  a  fight  we  will  have.  Eat  now  an'  dhrink, 
an'  go  your  way.'  Wid  that  he  gave  me  some 
hump  an'  whisky — good  whisky — an'  we  talked 
av  this  an'  that  the  while.  *  It  goes  hard  on  me 
now,'  sez  I,  wipin'  my  mouth,  'to  confiscate  that 
piece  av  furniture,  but  justice  is  justice.' — *  Ye've 
not  got  ut  yet,'  sez  he;  'there's  the  fight  be- 
tween.'— 'There  is,'  sez  I,  'an'  a  good  fight.  Ye 
shall  have  the  pick  av  the  best  quality  in  my  rigi- 
mint  for  the  dinner  you  have  given  this  day.' 
Thin  I  came  hot-foot  to  you  two.  Hould  your 
tongue,  the  both.  *Tis  this  way.  To-morrow 
we  three  will  go  there  an'  he  shall  have  his  pick 
betune  me  an'  Jock.  Jock's  a  deceivin'  fighter, 
for  he  is  all  fat  to  the  eye,  an'  he  moves  slow. 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        471 

Now  I'm  all  beef  to  the  look,  an'  I  move  quick. 
By  my  reckonin'  the  Dearsley  man  won't  take 
me;  so  me  an'  Orth'ris  '11  see  fair  play.  Jock,  1 
tell  you,  'twill  be  big  fightin' — whipped,  wid  the 
cream  above  the  jam.  Afther  the  business  'twill 
take  a  good  three  av  us — Jock  '11  be  very  hurt — 
to  haul  away  that  sedan-chair." 

"Palanquin."     This  from  Ortheris. 

"  Fwhatever  ut  is,  we  must  have  ut.  'Tis  the 
only  sellin'  piece  av  property  widin  reach  that  we 
can  get  so  cheap.  An'  f what's  a  fight  afther  all  ? 
He  has  robbed  the  naygur-man,  dishonust.  We 
rob  him  honust  for  the  sake  av  the  whisky  he 
gave  me." 

"But  wot'll  we  do  with  the  bloomin'  article 
when  we've  got  it  ?  Them  palanquins  are  as  big 
as  'ouses,  an'  uncommon  'ard  to  sell,  as  jMcCleary 
said  when  ye  stole  the  sentry-box  from  the 
Curragh." 

"  Who's  goin'  to  do  t'  fightin'  ?"  said  Learoyd, 
and  Ortheris  subsided.  The  three  returned  to 
barracks  without  a  word.  Mulvaney's  last  argu- 
ment clinched  the  matter.  This  palanquin  was 
property,  vendible,  and  to  be  attained  in  the 
simplest  and  least  embarrassing  fashion.  It 
would  eventually  become  beer.  Great  was  Mul- 
vaney. 

Next  afternoon  a  procession  of  three  formed 
itself  and  disappeared  into  the  scrub  in  the  direc- 


472  Indian  Tales 

tion  of  the  new  railway  line.  Learoyd  alone  was 
without  care,  for  Mulvaney  dived  darkly  into  the 
future,  and  little  Ortheris  feared  the  unknown. 
What  befell  at  that  interview  in  the  lonely  pay- 
shed  by  the  side  of  the  half-built  embankment, 
only  a  few  hundred  coolies  know,  and  their  tale 
is  a  confusing  one,  running  thus  — 

"  We  were  at  work.  Three  men  in  red  coats 
came.  They  saw  the  Sahib — Dearsley  Sahib. 
They  made  oration;  and  noticeably  the  small 
man  among  the  red-coats.  Dearsley  Sahib  also 
made  oration,  and  used  many  very  strong  words. 
Upon  this  talk  they  departed  together  to  an  open 
space,  and  there  the  fat  man  in  the  red  coat 
fought  with  Dearsley  Sahib  after  the  custom  of 
white  men — with  his  hands,  making  no  noise, 
and  never  at  all  pulling  Dearsley  Sahib's  hair. 
Such  of  us  as  were  not  afraid  beheld  these  things 
for  just  so  long  a  time  as  a  man  needs  to  cook  the 
midday  meal.  The  small  man  in  the  red  coat 
had  possessed  himself  of  Dearsley  Sahib's  watch. 
No,  he  did  not  steal  that  watch.  He  held  it  in 
his  hand,  and  at  certain  seasons  made  outcry,  and 
the  twain  ceased  their  combat,  which  was  like 
the  combat  of  young  bulls  in  spring.  Both  men 
were  soon  all  red,  but  Dearsley  Sahib  was  much 
more  red  than  the  other.  Seeing  this,  and  fear- 
ing for  his  life — because  we  greatly  loved  him — 
some  fifty  of  us  made  shift  to  rush  upon  the 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        473 

red-coats.  But  a  certain  man — very  black  as  to 
the  hair,  and  in  no  way  to  be  confused  with  the 
small  man,  or  the  fat  man  who  fought — that 
man,  we  affirm,  ran  upon  us,  and  of  us  he  em- 
braced some  ten  or  fifty  in  both  arms,  and  beat 
our  heads  together,  so  that  our  livers  turned  to 
water,  and  we  ran  away.  It  is  not  good  to  in- 
terfere in  the  fightings  of  white  men.  After 
that  Dearsley  Sahib  fell  and  did  not  rise,  these 
men  jumped  upon  his  stomach  and  despoiled 
him  of  all  his  money,  and  attempted  to  fire  the 
pay-shed,  and  departed.  Is  it  true  that  Dearsley 
Sahib  makes  no  complaint  of  these  latter  things 
having  been  done }  We  were  senseless  with 
fear,  and  do  not  at  all  remember.  There  was  no 
palanquin  near  the  pay-shed.  What  do  we  know 
about  palanquins  ?  Is  it  true  that  Dearsley  Sahib 
does  not  return  to  this  place,  on  account  of  his 
sickness,  for  ten  days  }  This  is  the  fault  of  those 
bad  men  in  the  red  coats,  who  should  be  severely 
punished;  for  Dearsley  Sahib  is  both  our  father 
and  mother,  and  we  love  him  much.  Yet,  if 
Dearsley  Sahib  does  not  return  to  this  place  at  all, 
we  will  speak  the  truth.  There  was  a  palanquin, 
for  the  up-keep  of  which  we  were  forced  to  pay 
nine-tenths  of  our  monthly  wage.  On  such 
mulctings  Dearsley  Sahib  allowed  us  to  make 
obeisance  to  him  before  the  palanquin.  What 
could  we  do  ?    We  were  poor  men.     He  took  a 


474  Indian  Tales 

full  half  of  our  wages.  Will  the  Government 
repay  us  those  moneys  ?  Those  three  men  in 
red  coats  bore  the  palanquin  upon  their  shoulders 
and  departed.  All  the  money  that  Dearsley  Sahib 
had  taken  from  us  was  in  the  cushions  of  that 
palanquin.  Therefore  they  stole  it.  Thousands 
of  rupees  were  there — all  our  money.  It  was 
our  bank-box,  to  till  which  we  cheerfully  con- 
tributed to  Dearsley  Sahib  three-sevenths  of  our 
monthly  wage.  Why  does  the  white  man  look 
upon  us  with  the  eye  of  disfavor  }  Before  God, 
there  was  a  palanquin,  and  now  there  is  no 
palanquin;  and  if  they  send  the  police  here  to 
make  inquisition,  we  can  only  say  that  there 
never  has  been  any  palanquin.  Why  should  a 
palanquin  be  near  these  works }  We  are  poor 
men,  and  we  know  nothing." 

Such  is  the  simplest  version  of  the  simplest 
story  connected  with  the  descent  upon  Dearsley. 
From  the  lips  of  the  coolies  I  received  it.  Dears- 
ley  himself  was  in  no  condition  to  say  anything, 
and  Mulvaney  preserved  a  massive  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  occasional  licking  of  the  lips.  He 
had  seen  a  fight  so  gorgeous  that  even  his  power 
of  speech  was  taken  from  him.  1  respected  that 
reserve  until,  three  days  after  the  affair,  1  dis- 
covered in  a  disused  stable  in  my  quarters  a  pal- 
anquin of  unchastened  splendor — evidently  in  past 
days  the  litter  of  a  queen.     The  pole  whereby  it 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        ^jz, 

swung  between  the  shoulders  of  the  bearers  was 
rich  with  the  painted  papier-mache  of  Cashmere. 
The  shoulder-pads  were  of  yellow  silk.  The 
panels  of  the  litter  itself  were  ablaze  with  the 
loves  of  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  the  Hindu 
Pantheon — lacquer  on  cedar.  The  cedar  sliding 
doors  were  fitted  with  hasps  of  translucent  Jaipur 
enamel  and  ran  in  grooves  shod  with  silver.  The 
cushions  were  of  brocaded  Delhi  silk,  and  the 
curtains  which  once  hid  any  glimpse  of  the  beauty 
of  the  king's  palace  were  stiff  with  gold.  Closer 
investigation  showed  that  the  entire  fabric  was 
everywhere  rubbed  and  discolored  by  time  and 
wear;  but  even  thus  it  was  sufficiently  gorgeous 
to  deserve  housing  on  the  threshold  of  a  royal 
zenana.  1  found  no  fault  with  it,  except  that  it 
was  in  my  stable.  Then,  trying  to  lift  it  by  the 
silver-shod  shoulder-pole,  I  laughed.  The  road 
from  Dearsley's  pay-shed  to  the  cantonment  was 
a  narrow  and  uneven  one,  and,  traversed  by 
three  very  inexperienced  palanquin-bearers,  one 
of  whom  was  sorely  battered  about  the  head, 
must  have  been  a  path  of  torment.  Still  I  did 
not  quite  recognize  the  right  of  the  three  mus- 
keteers to  turn  me  into  a  "fence"  for  stolen 
property. 

"I'm  askin'  you  to  warehouse  ut,"  said  Mul- 
vaney when  he  was  brought  to  consider  the 
question.     "There's    no   steal   in   ut.     Dearsley 


476  Indian  Tales 

tould  us  we  cud  have  ut  if  we  fought.  Jock 
fought — an',  oh,  sorr,  when  the  throuble  was  at 
uts  finest  an'  Jock  was  bleedin'  like  a  stuck  pig, 
an'  Httle  Orth'ris  was  shqueaUn'  on  one  leg 
chewin'  big  bites  out  av  Dearsley's  watch,  I  wud 
ha'  given  my  place  at  the  fight  to  have  had  you 
see  wan  round.  He  tuk  Jock,  as  I  suspicioned 
he  would,  an'  Jock  was  deceptive.  Nine  roun's 
they  were  even  matched,  an'  at  the  tenth  — 
About  that  palanquin  now.  There's  not  the 
least  throuble  in  the  world,  or  we  wud  not  ha' 
brought  ut  here.  You  will  ondherstand  that  the 
Queen — God  bless  her! — does  not  reckon  for  a 
privit  soldier  to  kape  elephints  an'  palanquins  an' 
sich  in  barricks.  Afther  we  had  dhragged  ut 
down  from  Dearsley's  through  that  cruel  scrub 
that  near  broke  Orth'ris's  heart,  we  set  ut  in  the 
ravine  for  a  night;  an'  a  thief  av  a  porcupine  an' 
a  civet-cat  av  a  jackal  roosted  in  ut,  as  well  we 
knew  in  the  mornin'.  I  put  ut  to  you,  sorr,  is 
an  elegint  palanquin,  fit  for  the  princess,  the  nat- 
ural abidin'  place  av  all  the  vermin  in  canton- 
mints?  We  brought  ut  to  you,  afther  dhark, 
and  put  ut  in  your  shtable.  Do  not  let  your  con- 
science prick.  Think  av  the  rejoicin'  men  in  the 
pay-shed  yonder — lookin'  at  Dearsley  wid  his 
head  tied  up  in  a  towel — an'  well  knowin'  that 
they  can  dhraw  their  pay  ivry  month  widout 
stoppages  for  riffles.     Indirectly,  sorr,  you  have 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        477 

rescued  from  an  onprincipled  son  av  a  night- 
hawk  the  peasanthry  av  a  numerous  village.  An' 
besides,  will  I  let  that  sedan-chair  rot  on  our 
hands  ?  Not  1.  'Tis  not  every  day  a  piece  av 
pure  joolry  comes  into  the  market.  There's  not 
a  king  widin  these  forty  miles  " — he  waved  his 
hand  round  the  dusty  horizon — "  not  a  king  wud 
not  be  glad  to  buy  ut.  Some  day  meself,  whin 
I  have  leisure,  I'll  take  ut  up  along  the  road  an' 
dishpose  av  ut." 

"How.^"  said  1,  for  I  knew  the  man  was  ca- 
pable of  anything. 

"Get  into  ut,  av  coorse,  and  keep  wan  eye 
open  through  the  curtains.  Whin  I  see  a  likely 
man  av  the  native  persuasion,  I  will  descind 
blushin'  from  my  canopy  and  say,  '  Buy  a  pal- 
anquin, ye  black  scutt }'  I  will  have  to  hire  four 
men  to  carry  me  first,  though;  and  that's  impos- 
sible till  next  pay-day." 

Curiously  enough,  Learoyd,  who  had  fought 
for  the  prize,  and  in  the  winning  secured  the 
highest  pleasure  life  had  to  offer  him,  was  alto- 
gether disposed  to  undervalue  it,  while  Ortheris 
openly  said  it  would  be  better  to  break  the  thing 
up.  Dearsley,  he  argued,  might  be  a  many-sided 
man,  capable,  despite  his  magnificent  fighting 
qualities,  of  setting  in  motion  the  machinery  of 
the  civil  law — a  thing  much  abhorred  by  the  sol- 
dier.    Under  any  circumstances   their  fun   had 


478  Indiajt  Tales 

come  and  passed;  the  next  pay-day  was  close  at 
hand,  when  there  would  be  beer  for  all.  Where- 
fore longer  conserve  the  painted  palanquin  ? 

"A  first-class  rifle-shot  an'  a  good  little  man 
av  your  inches  you  are,"  said  Mulvaney.  "But 
you  niver  had  a  head  worth  a  soft-boiled  egg. 
'Tis  me  has  to  lie  awake  av  nights  schamin'  an' 
plottin'  for  the  three  av  us.  Orth'ris,  me  son,  'tis 
no  matther  av  a  few  gallons  av  beer — no,  nor 
twenty  gallons — but  tubs  an'  vats  an'  firkins  in 
that  sedan-chair.  Who  ut  was,  an'  what  ut  was, 
an'  how  ut  got  there,  we  do  not  know;  but  I 
know  in  my  bones  that  you  an'  me  an'  Jock  wid 
his  sprained  thumb  will  get  a  fortune  thereby. 
Lave  me  alone,  an'  let  me  think." 

Meantime  the  palanquin  stayed  in  my  stall,  the 
key  of  which  was  in  Mulvaney's  hands. 

Pay-day  came,  and  with  it  beer.  It  was  not  in 
experience  to  hope  that  Mulvaney,  dried  by  four 
weeks'  drought,  would  avoid  excess.  Next  morn- 
ing he  and  the  palanquin  had  disappeared.  He 
had  taken  the  precaution  of  getting  three  days' 
leave  "to  see  a  friend  on  the  railway,"  and  the 
colonel,  well  knowing  that  the  seasonal  outburst 
was  near,  and  hoping  it  would  spend  its  force 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  jurisdiction,  cheerfully 
gave  him  all  he  demanded.  At  this  point  Mul- 
vaney's history,  as  recorded  in  the  mess-room, 
stopped. 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        479 

Ortheris  carried  it  not  much  further.  "No,  'e 
wasn't  drunk,"  said  the  little  man  loyally,  "the 
liquor  was  no  more  than  feelin'  its  way  round  in- 
side of  'im;  but  'e  went  an'  filled  that  'ole 
bloomin'  palanquin  with  bottles  'fore  'e  went  off. 
'E's  gone  an'  'ired  six  men  to  carry  'im,  an'  I  'ad 
to  'elp  'im  into  'is  nupshal  couch,  'cause  'e 
wouldn't  'ear  reason.  'E's  gone  oflF  in  'is  shirt 
an'  trousies,  swearin'  tremenjus — gone  down  the 
road  in  the  palanquin,  wavin'  'is  legs  out  o' 
windy." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "but  where?" 

"Now  you  arx  me  a  question.  'E  said  *e  was 
goin'  to  sell  that  palanquin,  but  from  observations 
what  happened  when  I  was  stuffin'  'im  through 
the  door,  1  fancy  'e's  gone  to  the  new  embank- 
ment to  mock  at  Dearsley.  'Soon  as  Jock's  off 
duty  I'm  goin'  there  to  see  if  'e's  safe — not  Mul- 
vaney, but  t'other  man.  My  saints,  but  I  pity 
'im  as  'elps  Terence  out  0'  the  palanquin  when  'e's 
once  fair  drunk! " 

"He'll  come  back  without  harm,"  I  said. 

"'Corse  'e  will.  On'y  question  is,  what'll 'e 
be  doin'  on  the  road  ?  Killing  Dearsley,  like  as 
not.     'E  shouldn't  'a  gone  without  jock  or  me." 

Reinforced  by  Learoyd,  Ortheris  sought  the 
foreman  of  the  coolie-gang.  Dearsley's  head  was 
still  embellished  with  towels.  Mulvaney,  drunk 
or  sober^  would  have  struck  no  man  in  that  con- 


48o  Indian   Tales 

dition,  and  Dearsley  indignantly  denied  that  he 
would  have  taken  advantage  of  the  intoxicated 
brave. 

"1  had  my  pick  o'  you  two,"  he  explained  to 
Learoyd,  "and  you  got  my  palanquin — not  before 
I'd  made  my  profit  on  it.  Why'd  I  do  harm 
when  everything's  settled  }  Your  man  did  come 
here — drunk  as  Davy's  sow  on  a  frosty  night — 
came  a-purpose  to  mock  me — stuck  his  head  out 
of  the  door  an'  called  me  a  crucified  hodman.  I 
made  him  drunker,  an'  sent  him  along.  But  I 
never  touched  him." 

To  these  things  Learoyd,  slow  to  perceive  the 
evidences  of  sincerity,  answered  only,  "if  owt 
comes  to  Mulvaaney  'long  o'  you,  I'll  gripple  you, 
clouts  or  no  clouts  on  your  ugly  head,  an'  I'll 
draw  f  throat  twistyways,  man.  See  there 
now." 

The  embassy  removed  itself,  and  Dearsley,  the 
battered,  laughed  alone  over  his  supper  that 
evening. 

Three  days  passed — a  fourth  and  a  fifth.  The 
week  drew  to  a  close  and  Mulvaney  did  not  re- 
turn. He,  his  royal  palanquin,  and  his  six  at- 
tendants, had  vanished  into  air.  A  very  large 
and  very  tipsy  soldier,  his  feet  sticking  out  of  the 
litter  of  a  reigning  princess,  is  not  a  thing  to 
travel  along  the  ways  without  comment.  Yet  no 
man  of  all  the  country  round  had  seen  any  such 


The  Incanidtiou  oj  Krishna  Mulvaney        481 

wonder.  He  was,  and  he  was  not;  and  Learoyd 
suggested  the  immediate  smashment  of  Dearsley 
as  a  sacrifice  to  his  ghost.  Ortheris  insisted  that 
all  was  well,  and  in  the  light  of  past  experience 
his  hopes  seemed  reasonable. 

"  When  Mulvaney  goes  up  the  road,"  said  he, 
"  'e's  like  to  go  a  very  long  ways  up,  specially 
when  'e's  so  blue  drunk  as  'e  is  now.  But  what 
gits  me  is  'is  not  bein'  'eard  of  puUin'  wool  otf 
the  niggers  somewheres  about.  That  don't  look 
good.  The  drink  must  ha'  died  out  in  'im  by 
this,  unless  'e's  broke  a  bank,  an'  then — Why 
don't  'e  come  back  ?  'E  didn't  ought  to  ha'  gone 
off  without  us." 

Even  Ortheris's  heart  sank  at  the  end  of  the 
seventh  day,  for  half  the  regiment  were  out 
scouring  the  country-side,  and  Learoyd  had  been 
forced  to  fight  two  men  who  hinted  openly  that 
Mulvaney  had  deserted.  To  do  him  justice,  the 
colonel  laughed  at  the  notion,  even  when  it  was 
put  forward  by  his  much-trusted  adjutant. 

"  Mulvaney  would  as  soon  think  of  deserting 
as  you  would,"  said  he.  "No;  he's  either  fallen 
into  a  mischief  among  the  villagers — and  yet  that 
isn't  likely,  for  he'd  blarney  himself  out  of  the 
Pit;  or  else  he  is  engaged  on  urgent  private  af- 
fairs— some  stupendous  devilment  that  we  shall 
hear  of  at  mess  after  it  has  been  the  round  of  the 
barrack-rooms.    The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  shall 


482  Indian   Tales 

have  to  give  him  twenty-eight  days'  confinement 
at  least  for  being  absent  without  leave,  just  when 
I  most  want  him  to  lick  the  new  batch  of  recruits 
into  shape.  I  never  knew  a  man  who  could  put 
a  polish  on  young  soldiers  as  quickly  as  Mul- 
vaney  can.     How  does  he  do  it?" 

"With  blarney  and  the  buckle-end  of  a  belt, 
sir,"  said  the  adjutant.  "He  is  worth  a  couple 
of  non-commissioned  officers  when  we  are  deal- 
ing with  an  Irish  draft,  and  the  London  lads  seem 
to  adore  him.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  if  he  goes 
to  the  cells  the  other  two  are  neither  to  hold  nor 
to  bind  till  he  comes  out  again.  I  believe  Ortheris 
preaches  mutiny  on  those  occasions,  and  I  know 
that  the  mere  presence  of  Learoyd  mourning  for 
Mulvaney  kills  all  the  cheerfulness  of  his  room. 
The  sergeants  tell  me  that  he  allows  no  man  to 
laugh  when  he  feels  unhappy.  They  are  a  queer 
gang." 

"For  all  that,  I  wish  we  had  a  few  more  of 
them.  I  like  a  well-conducted  regiment,  but 
these  pasty-faced,  shifty-eyed,  mealy-mouthed 
young  slouchers  from  the  depot  worry  me  some- 
times with  their  offensive  virtue.  They  don't 
seem  to  have  backbone  enough  to  do  anything 
but  play  cards  and  prowl  round  the  married 
quarters.  I  believe  I'd  forgive  that  old  villain  on 
the  spot  if  he  turned  up  with  any  sort  of  explana- 
tion that  I  could  in  decency  accept." 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        483 

"Not  likely  to  be  much  difficulty  about  that, 
sir,"  said  the  adjutant.  "  Mulvaney's  explana- 
tions are  only  one  degree  less  wonderful  than  his 
performances.  They  say  that  when  he  was  in 
the  Black  Tyrone,  before  he  came  to  us,  he  was 
discovered  on  the  banks  of  the  Liffey  trying  to 
sell  his  colonel's  charger  to  a  Donegal  dealer  as  a 
perfect  lady's  hack.  Shackbolt  commanded  the 
Tyrone  then." 

"Shackbolt  must  have  had  apoplexy  at  the 
thought  of  his  ramping  war-horses  answering  to 
that  description.  He  used  to  buy  unbacked 
devils,  and  tame  them  on  some  pet  theory  of 
starvation.     What  did  Mulvaney  say  ?" 

"That  he  was  a  member  of  the  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  anxious  to 
'sell  the  poor  baste  where  he  would  get  some- 
thing to  fill  out  his  dimples.'  Shackbolt  laughed, 
but  I  fancy  that  was  why  Mulvaney  exchanged 
to  ours." 

"  I  wish  he  were  back,"  said  the  colonel;  "  for 
I  like  him  and  believe  he  likes  me." 

That  evening,  to  cheer  our  souls,  Learoyd, 
Ortheris,  and  1  went  into  the  waste  to  smoke  out 
a  porcupine.  All  the  dogs  attended,  but  even 
their  clamor — and  they  began  to  discuss  the 
shortcomings  of  porcupines  before  they  left  can- 
tonments— could  not  take  us  out  of  ourselves. 
A  large,  low  moon  turned  the  tops  of  the  plume- 


484  Indian  Tales 

grass  to  silver,  and  the  stunted  camelthorn  bushes 
and  sour  tamarisks  into  the  likenesses  of  trooping 
devils.  The  smell  of  the  sun  had  not  left  the 
earth,  and  little  aimless  winds  blowing  across  the 
rose-gardens  to  the  southward  brought  the  scent 
of  dried  roses  and  water.  Our  fire  once  started, 
and  the  dogs  craftily  disposed  to  wait  the  dash  of 
the  porcupine,  we  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  rain- 
scarred  hillock  of  earth,  and  looked  across  the 
scrub  seamed  with  cattle  paths,  white  with  the 
long  grass,  and  dotted  with  spots  of  level  pond- 
bottom,  where  the  snipe  would  gather  in  winter. 

"This,"  said  Ortheris,  with  a  sigh,  as  he  took 
in  the  unkempt  desolation  of  it  all,  "this  is  san- 
guinary. This  is  unusually  sanguinary.  Sort 
o'  mad  country.  Like  a  grate  when  the  fire's  put 
out  by  the  sun."  He  shaded  his  eyes  against  the 
moonlight.  "An'  there's  a  loony  dancin'  in  the 
middle  of  it  all.  Quite  right.  I'd  dance  too  if  I 
wasn't  so  downheart." 

There  pranced  a  Portent  in  the  face  of  the 
moon — a  huge  and  ragged  spirit  of  the  waste, 
that  flapped  its  wings  from  afar.  It  had  risen 
out  of  the  earth;  it  was  coming  toward  us,  and 
its  outline  was  never  twice  the  same.  The  toga, 
table-cloth,  or  dressing-gown,  whatever  the 
creature  wore,  took  a  hundred  shapes.  Once  it 
stopped  on  a  neighboring  mound  and  flung  all  its 
legs  and  arms  to  the  winds. 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        485 

"My,  but  that  scarecrow  'as  got  'em  bad!" 
said  Ortheris.  "Seems  like  if  'e  comes  any 
furder  we'll  'ave  to  argify  with  'im." 

Learoyd  raised  himself  from  the  dirt  as  a  bull 
clears  his  flanks  of  the  wallow.  And  as  a  bull 
bellows,  so  he,  after  a  short  minute  at  gaze,  gave 
tongue  to  the  stars. 

"Mulvaaney!  Mulvaanby!  A-hoo!" 

Oh  then  it  was  that  we  yelled,  and  the  figure 
dipped  into  the  hollow,  till,  with  a  crash  of  rend- 
ing grass,  the  lost  one  strode  up  to  the  light  of 
the  fire,  and  disappeared  to  the  waist  in  a  wave 
of  joyous  dogs!  Then  Learoyd  and  Ortheris 
gave  greeting,  bass  and  falsetto  together,  both 
swallowing  a  lump  in  the  throat. 

"You  damned  fool!"  said  they,  and  severally 
pounded  him  with  their  fists. 

"Go  easy!"  he  answered;  wrapping  a  huge 
arm  around  each.  "  I  would  have  you  to  know 
that  I  am  a  god,  to  be  treated  as  such — tho',  by 
my  faith,  I  fancy  I've  got  to  go  to  the  guard- 
room just  like  a  privit  soldier." 

The  latter  part  of  the  sentence  destroyed  the 
suspicions  raised  by  the  former.  Any  one  would 
have  been  justified  in  regarding  Mulvaney  as  mad. 
He  was  hatless  and  shoeless,  and  his  shirt  and 
trousers  were  dropping  off  him.  But  he  wore 
one  wondrous  garment — a  gigantic  cloak  that 
fell  from  collar-bone  to  heel — of  pale  pink  silk, 


486  Indian  Tales 

wrought  all  over  in  cunningest  needlework  of 
hands  long  since  dead,  with  the  loves  of  the 
Hindu  gods.  The  monstrous  figures  leaped  in 
and  out  of  the  light  of  the  fire  as  he  settled  the 
folds  round  him. 

Ortheris  handled  the  stuff  respectfully  for  a 
moment  while  1  was  trying  to  remember  where 
I  had  seen  it  before.  Then  he  screamed,  "  What 
'az'e  you  done  with  the  palanquin  ?  You're 
wearin'  the  linin'." 

"1  am,"  said  the  Irishman,  "  an'  by  the  same 
token  the  'broidery  is  scrapin'  my  hide  off.  I've 
lived  in  this  sumpshus  counterpane  for  four  days. 
Me  son,  I  begin  to  ondherstand  why  the  naygur 
is  no  use.  Widout  me  boots,  an'  me  trousies 
like  an  openwork  stocking  on  a  gyurl's  leg  at  a 
dance,  1  begin  to  feel  like  a  naygur-man — all  fear- 
ful an'  timoreous.     Give  me  a  pipe  an'  Ml  tell  on." 

He  lit  a  pipe,  resumed  his  grip  of  his  two 
friends,  and  rocked  to  and  fro  in  a  gale  of  laugh- 
ter. 

"Mulvaney,"  said  Ortheris  sternly,  "'tain'tno 
time  for  laughin'.  You've  given  Jock  an'  me 
more  trouble  than  you're  worth.  You  'ave  been 
absent  without  leave  an'  you'll  go  into  cells  for 
that;  an'  you  'ave  com.e  back  disgustin'ly  dressed 
an'  most  improper  in  the  linin'  o'  that  bloomin* 
palanquin.  Instid  of  which  you  laugh.  An'  we 
thought  you  was  dead  all  the  time." 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        487 

"Bhoys,"  said  the  culprit,  still  shaking  gently, 
"whin  I've  done  my  tale  you  may  cry  if  you 
like,  an'  little  Orth'ris  here  can  thrample  my  in- 
side out.  Ha'  done  an'  listen.  My  performinces 
have  been  stupenjus:  my  luck  has  been  the 
blessed  luck  av  the  British  Army — an'  there's  no 
betther  than  that.  1  went  out  dhrunk  an'  dhrinkin' 
in  the  palanquin,  and  1  have  come  back  a  pink 
god.  Did  any  of  you  go  to  Dearsley  afther  my 
time  was  up  ?    He  was  at  the  bottom  of  ut  all." 

"Ah  said  so,"  murmured  Learoyd.  "To- 
morrow ah'll  smash  t'  face  in  upon  his  heead." 

"Ye  will  not.  Dearsley 's  a  jool  av  a  man. 
Afther  Ortheris  had  put  me  into  the  palanquin 
an'  the  six  bearer-men  were  gruntin'  down  the 
road,  I  tuk  thought  to  mock  Dearsley  for  that 
fight.  So  I  tould  thim,  'Go  to  the  embankmint,' 
and  there,  bein'  most  amazin'  full,  1  shtuck  my 
head  out  av  the  concern  an'  passed  compliments 
wid  Dearsley.  I  must  ha'  miscalled  him  out- 
rageous, for  whin  I  am  that  way  the  power  av 
the  tongue  comes  on  me.  I  can  bare  remimber 
tellin'  him  that  his  mouth  opened  endways  like 
the  mouth  av  a  skate,  which  was  thrue  afther 
Learoyd  had  handled  ut;  an'  I  clear  remimber  his 
takin'  no  manner  nor  matter  av  offence,  but  givin' 
me  a  big  dhrink  of  beer,  'Twas  the  beer  did  the 
thrick,  for  I  crawled  back  into  the  palanquin, 
steppin'  on  me  right  ear  wid  me  left  foot,  an' 


488  Indian  Tales 

thin  I  slept  like  the  dead.  Wanst  1  half-roused, 
an'  begad  the  noise  in  my  head  was  tremenjus — 
roarin'  and  rattlin'  an'  poundin',  such  as  was 
quite  new  to  me.  'Mother  av  Mercy,'  thinks  I, 
'  phwat  a  concertina  1  will  have  on  my  shoulders 
whin  I  wake!'  An'  wid  that  I  curls  mysilf  up 
to  sleep  before  ut  should  get  hould  on  me. 
Bhoys,  that  noise  was  not  dhrink,  'twas  the  rattle 
av  a  thrain!" 

There  followed  an  impressive  pause. 

"Yes,  he  had  put  me  on  a  thrain — put  me, 
palanquin  an'  all,  an'  six  black  assassins  av  his 
own  coolies  that  was  in  his  nefarious  confidence, 
on  the  flat  av  a  ballast-thruck,  and  we  were 
rowlin'  an'  bowlin'  along  to  Benares.  Glory  be 
that  1  did  not  wake  up  thin  an'  introjuce  mysilf 
to  the  coolies.  As  I  was  sayin',  1  slept  for  the 
betther  part  av  a  day  an'  a  night.  But  remim- 
ber  you,  that  that  man  Dearsley  had  packed  me 
off  on  wan  av  his  material-thrains  to  Benares,  all 
for  to  make  me  overstay  my  leave  an'  get  me 
into  the  cells." 

The  explanation  was  an  eminently  rational  one. 
Benares  lay  at  least  ten  hours  by  rail  from  the 
cantonments,  and  nothing  in  the  world  could 
have  saved  Mulvaney  from  arrest  as  a  deserter 
had  he  appeared  there  in  the  apparel  of  his 
orgies.  Dearsley  had  not  forgotten  to  take  re- 
venge.    Learoyd,  drawing  back  a  little,  began  to 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        489 

place  soft  blows  over  selected  portions  of  Mul- 
vaney's  body.  His  thoughts  were  away  on  the 
embankment,  and  they  meditated  evil  for  Dears- 
ley.     Mulvaney  continued  — 

"Whin  1  was  full  awake  the  palanquin  was 
set  down  in  a  street,  I  suspicioned,  for  1  cud  hear 
people  passin'  an'  talkin'.  But  1  knew  well  I  was 
far  from  home.  There  is  a  queer  smell  upon  our 
cantonments — a  smell  av  dried  earth  and  brick- 
kilns wid  whiffs  av  cavalry  stable-litter.  This 
place  smelt  marigold  flowers  an'  bad  water,  an' 
wanst  somethin'  alive  came  an'  blew  heavy  with 
his  muzzle  at  the  chink  av  the  shutter.  '  It's  in  a 
village  1  am,'  thinks  I  to  myself,  'an'  the  parochial 
buffalo  is  investigatin'  the  palanquin.'  But  any- 
ways I  had  no  desire  to  move.  Only  lie  still 
whin  you're  in  foreign  parts  an'  the  standin' 
luck  av  the  British  Army  will  carry  ye  through. 
That  is  an  epigram,     1  made  ut. 

"Thin  a  lot  av  whishperin' divils  surrounded 
the  palanquin.  '  Take  ut  up,'  sez  wan  man. 
'  But  who'll  pay  us .^'  sez  another.  'The  Maha- 
ranee's minister,  av  coorse,'  sez  the  man.  '  Oho ! ' 
sez  I  to  mysilf,  '  I'm  a  quane  in  me  own  right, 
wid  a  minister  to  pay  me  expenses.  I'll  be  an 
emperor  if  1  lie  still  long  enough;  but  this  is  no 
village  I've  found.'  I  lay  quiet,  but  I  gummed 
me  right  eye  to  a  crack  av  the  shutters,  an'  I  saw 
that  the  whole  street  was  crammed  wid  palan- 


490  Indian  Tales 

quins  an'  horses,  an'  a  sprinklin'  av  naked  priests 
all  yellow  powder  an'  tigers'  tails.  But  I  may 
tell  you,  Orth'ris,  an'  you,  Learoyd,  that  av  all 
the  palanquins  ours  was  the  most  imperial  an' 
magnificent.  Now  a  palanquin  means  a  native 
lady  all  the  world  over,  except  whin  a  soldier  av 
the  Quane  happens  to  be  takin'  a  ride.  '  Women 
an'  priests!'  sez-  I.  '  Your  father's  son  is  in  the 
right  pew  this  time,  Terence.  There  will  be 
proceedin's.'  Six  black  divils  in  pink  muslin  tuk 
up  the  palanquin,  an'  oh!  but  the  rowlin'  an'  the 
rockin'  made  me  sick.  Thin  we  got  fair  jammed 
among  the  palanquins — not  more  than  fifty  av 
them — an'  we  grated  an'  bumped  like  Queens- 
town  potato-smacks  in  a  runnin'  tide.  I  cud 
hear  the  women  gigglin'  and  squirkin'  in  their 
palanquins,  but  mine  .was  the  royal  equipage. 
They  made  way  for  ut,  an',  begad,  the  pink 
muslin  men  o'  mine  were  howlin',  *  Room  for 
the  Maharanee  av  Gokral-Seetarun.'  Do  you 
know  aught  av  the  lady,  sorr?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "She  is  a  very  estimable  old 
queen  of  the  Central  Indian  States,  and  they  say 
she  is  fat.  How  on  earth  could  she  go  to  Benares 
without  all  the  city  knowing  her  palanquin.?" 

"'Twas  the  eternal  foolishness  av  the  naygur- 
man.  They  saw  the  palanquin  lying  loneful  an' 
forlornsome,  an'  the  beauty  av  ut,  after  Dearsley's 
men  had  dhropped  ut  and  gone  away,  an'  they 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        491 

gave  ut  the  best  name  that  occurred  to  thim. 
Quite  right  too.  For  aught  we  know  the  ould 
lady  was  travelin'  incog — like  me.  I'm  glad  to 
hear  she's  fat.  I  was  no  light  weight  mysilf,  an' 
my  men  were  mortial  anxious  to  dhrop  me  under 
a  great  big  archway  promiscuously  ornamented 
wid  the  most  improper  carvin's  an'  cuttin's  I  iver 
saw.  Begad!  they  made  me  blush — like  a — like 
a  Maharanee." 

"The  temple  of  Prithi-Devi,"  1  murmured,  re- 
membering the  monstrous  horrors  of  that  sculp- 
tured archway  at  Benares. 

"Pretty  Devilskins,  savin'  your  presence,  sorr! 
There  was  nothin'  pretty  about  ut,  except  me. 
'Twas  all  half  dhark,  an'  whin  the  coolies  left 
they  shut  a  big  black  gate  behind  av  us,  an'  half 
a  company  av  fat  yellow  priests  began  pully- 
haulin'  the  palanquins  into  a  dharker  place  yet — 
a  big  stone  hall  full  av  pillars,  an'  gods,  an'  in- 
cense, an'  all  manner  av  similar  thruck.  The 
gate  disconcerted  me,  for  I  perceived  I  wud  have 
to  go  forward  to  get  out,  my  retreat  bein'  cut  off. 
By  the  same  token  a  good  priest  makes  a  bad 
palanquin-coolie.  Begad!  they  nearly  turned  me 
inside  out  draggin'  the  palanquin  to  the  temple. 
Now  the  disposishin  av  the  forces  inside  was  this 
way.  The  Maharanee  av  Gokral-Seetarun — that 
was  me — lay  by  the  favor  av  Providence  on  the 
far  left  flank  behind  the  dhark  av  a  pillar  carved 


492  Indian  Tale% 

with  elephints'  heads.  The  remainder  av  the 
palanquins  was  in  a  big  half  circle  facing  in  to 
the  biggest,  fattest,  an'  most  amazin'  she-god 
that  iver  I  dreamed  av.  Her  head  ran  up  into  the 
black  above  us,  an'  her  feet  stuck  out  in  the  light 
av  a  little  fire  av  melted  butter  that  a  priest  was 
feedin'  out  av  a  butter-dish.  Thin  a  man  began 
to  sing  an'  play  on  somethin'  back  in  the  dhark, 
an'  'twas  a  queer  song.  Ut  made  my  hair  lift  on 
the  back  av  my  neck.  Thin  the  doors  av  all  the 
palanquins  slid  back,  an' the  women  bundled  out. 
I  saw  what  I'll  niver  see  again.  'Twas  more 
glorious  than  thransformations  at  a  pantomime, 
for  they  was  in  pink  an'  blue  an'  silver  an'  red  an' 
grass  green,  wid  di'monds  an'  im'ralds  an'  great 
red  rubies  all  over  thim.  But  that  was  the  least 
part  av  the  glory.  O  bhoys,  they  were  more 
lovely  than  the  like  av  any  loveliness  in  hiven; 
ay,  their  little  bare  feet  were  better  than  the  white 
hands  av  a  lord's  lady,  an'  their  mouths  were  like 
puckered  roses,  an'  their  eyes  were  bigger  an' 
dharker  than  the  eyes  av  any  livin'  women  I've 
seen.  Ye  may  laugh,  but  I'm  speakin'  truth.  I 
niver  saw  the  like,  an'  niver  I  will  again." 

"Seeing  that  in  all  probability  you  were  watch- 
ing the  wives  and  daughters  of  most  of  the  kings 
of  India,  the  chances  are  that  you  won't,"  I  said, 
for  it  was  dawning  on  me  that  Mulvaney  had 
stumbled  upon  a  big  Queens'  Praying  at  Benares. 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney         493 

"I  niver  will,"  he  said,  mournfully.  "That 
sight  doesn't  come  twist  to  any  man.  It  made 
me  ashamed  to  watch.  A  fat  priest  knocked  at 
my  door.  I  didn't  think  he'd  have  the  insolince 
to  disturb  the  Maharanee  av  Gokral-Seetarun,  so 
I  lay  still.  '  The  old  cow's  asleep,'  sez  he  to  an- 
other. 'Let  her  be/  sez  that.  'Twill  be  long 
before  she  has  a  calf!'  1  might  ha'  known  be- 
fore he  spoke  that  all  a  woman  prays  for  in  Injia 
— an'  for  matter  o'  that  in  England  too — is  child- 
her.  That  made  me  more  sorry  I'd  come,  me 
bein',  as  you  well  know,  a  childless  man." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  thinking  of  his 
little  son,  dead  many  years  ago. 

"They  prayed,  an'  the  butter-fires  blazed  up 
an'  the  incense  turned  everything  blue,  an'  be- 
tween that  an'  the  fires  the  women  looked  as  tho' 
they  were  all  ablaze  an'  twinklin'.  They  took 
hold  av  the  she-god's  knees,  they  cried  out  an' 
they  threw  themselves  about,  an'  that  world- 
without-end-amen  music  was  dhrivin'  thim  mad. 
Mother  av  Hiven!  how  they  cried,  an'  the  ould 
she-god  grinnin'  above  thim  all  so  scornful!  The 
dhrink  was,  dyin'  out  in  me  fast,  an'  I  was 
thinkin'  harder  than  the  thoughts  wud  go  through- 
my  head — thinkin'  how  to  get  out,  an'  all  manner 
of  nonsense  as  well.  The  women  were  rockin' 
in  rows,  their  di'mond  belts  clickin',  an"  the  tears 
runnin'  out  betune  their  hands,  an'  the  lights  were 


494  Indian  Tales 

goin'  lower  an'  dharker.  Thin  there  was  a  blaze 
like  lightnin'  from  the  roof,  an'  that  showed  me 
the  inside  av  the  palanquin,  an'  at  the  end  where 
my  foot  was,  stood  the  livin'  spit  an'  image  o' 
mysilf  worked  on  the  linin'.  This  man  here,  ut 
was." 

He  hunted  in  the  folds  of  his  pink  cloak,  ran  a 
hand  under  one,  and  thrust  into  the  firelight  a 
foot-long  embroidered  presentment  of  the  great 
god  Krishna,  playing  on  a  flute.  The  heavy  jowl, 
the  staring  eye,  and  the  blue-black  moustache  of 
the  god  made  up  a  far-off  resemblance  to  Mul- 
vaney. 

"  The  blaze  was  gone  in  a  wink,  but  the  whole 
schame  came  to  me  thin.  1  believe  1  was  mad 
too.  1  slid  the  off-shutter  open  an'  rowled  out 
into  the  dhark  behind  the  elephint-head  pillar, 
tucked  up  my  trousies  to  my  knees,  slipped  off 
my  boots  an'  tuk  a  general  hould  av  all  the  pink 
linin'  av  the  palanquin.  Glory  be,  ut  ripped  out 
like  a  woman's  dhriss  whin  you  tread  on  ut  at  a 
sergeants'  ball,  an'  a  bottle  came  with  ut.  I  tuk 
the  bottle  an'  the  next  minut  I  was  out  av  the 
dhark  av  the  pillar,  the  pink  linin'  wrapped  round 
me  most  graceful,  the  music  thunderin'  like  ket- 
tledrums, an'  a  could  draft  blowin'  round  my 
bare  legs.  By  this  hand  that  did  ut,  I  was 
Khrishna  tootlin'  on  the  flute — the  god  that  the 
rig'mental  chaplain  talks  about.     A  sweet  sight  I 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        495 

must  ha'  looked.  I  knew  my  eyes  were  big,  and 
my  face  was  wax-white,  an'  at  the  worst  I  must 
ha'  looked  like  a  ghost.  But  they  took  me  for 
the  livin'  god.  The  music,  stopped,  and  the 
women  were  dead  dumb  an'  1  crooked  my  legs 
like  a  shepherd  on  a  china  basin,  an'  1  did  the 
ghost-waggle  with  my  feet  as  1  had  done  ut  at 
the  rig'mental  theatre  many  times,  an'  1  slid  acrost 
the  width  av  that  temple  in  front  av  the  she-god 
tootlin'  on  the  beer  bottle." 

"  Wot  did  you  toot?"  demanded  Ortheris  the 
practical. 

"  Me .?  Oh!  "  Mulvaney  sprang  up,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  and  sliding  gravely  in  front 
of  us,  a  dilapidated  but  imposing  deity  in  the  half 
light.     "I  sang  — 

"  Only  say 
You'll  be  Mrs.  Brallaghan. 
Don't  say  nay, 
Charmin'  Judy  Callaghan. 

I  didn't  know  me  own  voice  when  1  sang.  An' 
oh!  'twas  pitiful  to  see  the  women.  The  darlin's 
were  down  on  their  faces.  Whin  1  passed  the 
last  wan  I  cud  see  her  poor  little  fingers  workin' 
one  in  another  as  if  she  wanted  to  touch  my  feet. 
So  1  dhrew  the  tail  av  this  pink  overcoat  over  her 
head  for  the  greater  honor,  an'  I  slid  into  the 
dhark  on  the  other  side  av  the  temple,  and  fetched 


496  Indian   Tales 

up  in  the  arms  av  a  big  fat  priest.  All  I  wanted 
was  to  get  away  clear.  So  1  tuk  hiin  by  his 
greasy  throat  an'  shut  the  speech  out  av  him. 
'Out!'  sez  I.  'Which  way,  ye  fat  heathen  .? ' — 
'Oh!'  sez  he.  'Man,'  sez  I.  'White  man,  sol- 
dier man,  common  soldier  man.  Where  in  the 
name  av  confusion  is  the  back  door.?'  The 
women  in  the  temple  were  still  on  their  faces, 
an'  a  young  priest  was  holdin'  out  his  arms  above 
their  heads. 

"'This  way,'  sez  my  fat  friend,  duckin'  be- 
hind a  big  bull-god  an'  divin'  into  a  passage. 
Thin  I  remimbered  that  I  must  ha'  made  the  mi- 
raculous reputation  av  that  temple  for  the  next 
fifty  years.  'Not  so  fast,'  I  sez,  an'  I  held  out 
both  my  hands  wid  a  wink.  That  ould  thief 
smiled  like  a  father,  I  tuk  him  by  the  back  av 
the  neck  in  case  he  should  be  wishful  to  put 
a  knife  into  me  unbeknownst,  an'  I  ran  him 
up  an'  down  the  passage  twice  to  collect  his  sen- 
sibilities! 'Be  quiet,'  sez  he,  in  English.  'Now 
you  talk  sense,'  I  sez.  '  Fwhat'll  you  give  me 
for  the  use  av  that  most  iligant  palanquin  I  have 
no  time  to  take  away  ? ' — '  Don't  tell,'  sez  he.  '  Is 
ut  like .?'  sez  I.  '  But  ye  might  give  me  my  rail- 
way fare.  I'm  far  from  my  home  an'  I've  done 
you  a  service.'  Bhoys,  'tis  a  good  thing  to  be  a 
priest.  The  ould  man  niver  throubled  himself  to 
dhraw  from   a  bank.     As  I  will  prove  to  you 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        497 

subsequint,  he  philandered  all  round  the  slack  av 
his  clothes  an'  began  dribblin'  ten-rupee  notes, 
old  gold  mohurs,  and  rupees  into  my  hand  till  I 
could  hould  no  more." 

"You  lie!"  said  Ortheris.  "You're  mad  or 
sunstrook.  A  native  don't  give  coin  unless  you 
cut  it  out  o'  'im.     'Tain't  nature." 

"Then  my  lie  an'  my  sunstroke  is  concealed 
under  that  lump  av  sod  yonder,"  retorted  Mul- 
vaney, unruffled,  nodding  across  the  scrub. 
"An'  there's  a  dale  more  in  nature  than  your 
squidgy  little  legs  have  iver  taken  you  to,  Orth- 
'ris,  me  son.  Four  hundred  an'  thirty-four 
rupees  by  my  reckonin",  an  a  big  fat  gold  neck- 
lace that  I  took  from  him  as  a  remimbrancer,  was 
our  share  in  that  business." 

"  An'  'e  give  it  you  for  love  }  "  said  Ortheris. 

"We  were  alone  in  that  passage.  Maybe  I 
was  a  trifle  too  pressin',  but  considher  fwhat  I 
had  done  for  the  good  av  the  temple  and  the 
iverlastin'  joy  av  those  women.  'Twas  cheap  at 
the  price.  I  wud  ha'  taken  more  if  I  cud  ha' 
found  ut.  I  turned  the  ould  man  upside  down 
at  the  last,  but  he  was  milked  dhry.  Thin  he 
opened  a  door  in  another  passage  an'  1  found 
mysilf  up  to  my  knees  in  Benares  river-water, 
an'  bad  smellin'  ut  is.  More  by  token  I  had  come 
out  on  the  river-line  close  to  the  burnin'  ghat  and 
contagious  to  a  cracklin'  corpse.     This  was  in 


498  Indian  Tales 

the  heart  av  the  night,  for  I  had  been  four  hours 
in  the  temple.  There  was  a  crowd  av  boats 
tied  up,  so  1  tuk  wan  an'  wint  across  the  river. 
Thin  I  came  home  acrost  country,  lyin'  up  by 
day." 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  manage  ?"  I  said, 

"How  did  Sir  Frederick  Roberts  get  from 
Cabul  to  Candahar }  He  marched  an'  he  niver 
tould  how  near  he  was  to  breakin'  down.  That's 
why  he  is  fwhat  he  is.  An'  now  " —  Mulvaney 
yawned  portentously.  "Now  I  will  go  an'  give 
myself  up  for  absince  widout  leave.  It's  eight 
an'  twenty  days  an'  the  rough  end  of  the  colonel's 
tongue  in  orderly  room,  any  way  you  look  at  ut. 
But  'tis  cheap  at  the  price." 

"  Mulvaney,"  said  I,  softly.  "  If  there  happens 
to  be  any  sort  of  excuse  that  the  colonel  can  in 
any  way  accept,  I  have  a  notion  that  you'll  get 
nothing  more  than  the  dressing-gown.  The  new 
recruits  are  in,  and  " — 

"  Not  a  word  more,  sorr.  Is  ut  excuses  the  old 
man  wants  ?  'Tis  not  my  way,  but  he  shall  have 
thim.  I'll  tell  him  I  was  engaged  in  financial 
operations  connected  wid  a  church,"  and  he 
flapped  his  way  to  cantonments  and  the  cells, 
singing  lustily  — 

"  So  they  sent  a  corp'ril's  file, 
And  they  put  me  in  the  gyard-room 
For  conduck  unbecomin'  of  a  soldier." 


The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney        ^gg 

And  when  he  was  lost  in  the  midst  of  the  moon- 
light we  could  hear  the  refrain  — 

"  Bang  upon  the  big  drum,  bash  upon  the  cymbals, 
As  we  go  marchin'  along,  boys,  oh ! 
For  although  in  this  campaign 
There's  no  whisky  nor  champagne, 
We'll  keep  our  spirits  goin'  with  a  song,  boys!  '* 

Therewith  he  surrendered  himself  to  the  joyful 
and  almost  weeping  guard,  and  was  made  much 
of  by  his  fellows.  But  to  the  colonel  he  said 
that  he  had  been  smitten  with  sunstroke  and  had 
lain  insensible  on  a  villager's  cot  for  untold  hours; 
and  between  laughter  and  good-will  the  affair 
was  smoothed  over,  so  that  he  could,  next  day, 
teach  the  new  recruits  how  to  "  Fear  God,  Hone 
the  Queen,  Shoot  Straight,  and  Keep  Clean," 


HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING 

"WlTere  the  word  of  a  King  is,  there  is  power:  And  who 
may  say  unto  him — What  doest  thou  ?  " 

^^  WETH  !  And  Chimo  to  sleep  at  ve  foot  of 
I  ve  bed,  and  ve  pink  pikky-book,  and  ve 
bwead — 'cause  I  will  be  hungwy  in  ve  night — 
and  vat's  all,  Miss  Biddums.  And  now  give  me 
one  kiss  and  I'll  go  to  sleep. — So!  Kite  quiet. 
Ow!  Ve  pink  pikky-book  has  slidded  under  ve 
pillow  and  ve  bwead  is  cwumbling!  Miss  Bid- 
dums! Miss  ^/c/dums !  I'msouncomfy!  Come 
and  tuck  me  up,  Miss  Biddums." 

His  Majesty  the  King  was  going  to  bed ;  and 
poor,  patient  Miss  Biddums,  who  had  advertised 
herself  humbly  as  a  "young  person,  European, 
accustomed  to  the  care  of  little  children,"  was 
forced  to  wait  upon  his  royal  caprices.  The 
going  to  bed  was  always  a  lengthy  process,  be- 
cause His  Majesty  had  a  convenient  knack  of  for- 
getting which  of  his  many  friends,  from  the 
mehfer's  son  to  the  Commissioner's  daughter,  he 
had  prayed  for,  and,  lest  the  Deity  should  take 
offence,  was  used  to  toil  through  his  little  prayers, 
in  all  reverence,  five  times  in  one  evening.  His 
Majesty  the  King  believed  in  the  efficacy  of 
500 


His  Majesty  the  King  501 

prayer  as  devoutly  as  he  believed  in  Chimo  the 
patient  spaniel,  or  Miss  Biddums,  who  could 
reach  him  down  his  gun— "  with  cursuffun  caps 
—reel  ones  "—from  the  upper  shelves  of  the  big 
nursery  cupboard. 

At  the  door  of  the  nursery  his  authority  stopped. 
Beyond  lay  the  empire  of  his  father  and  mother 
— two  very  terrible  people  who  had  no  time  to 
waste  upon  His  Majesty  the  King.  His  voice 
was  lowered  when  he  passed  the  frontier  of  his 
own  dominions,  his  actions  were  fettered,  and 
his  soul  was  filled  with  awe  because  of  the  grim 
man  who  lived  among  a  wilderness  of  pigeon- 
holes and  the  most  fascinating  pieces  of  red  tape, 
and  the  wonderful  woman  who  was  always  get- 
ting into  or  stepping  out  of  the  big  carriage. 

To  the  one  belonged  the  mysteries  of  the 
"'  dufiar-room  ";  to  the  other  the  great,  reflected 
wilderness  of  the  "  Memsahib's  room  "  where  the 
shiny,  scented  dresses  hung  on  pegs,  miles  and 
miles  up  in  the  air,  and  the  just-seen  plateau  of 
the  toilet-table  revealed  an  acreage  of  speckly 
combs,  broidered  "  hanafitch  bags,"  and  "  white- 
headed  "  brushes. 

There  was  no  room  for  His  Majesty  the  King 
either  in  official  reserve  or  mundane  gorgeousness. 
He  had  discovered  that,  ages  and  ages  ago — be- 
fore even  Chimo  came  to  the  house,  or  Miss  Bid- 
dums had  ceased  grizzling  over  a  packet  of  greasy 


502  Indian  Tales 

letters  which  appeared  to  be  her  chief  treasure  on 
earth.  His  Majesty  the  King,  therefore,  wisely 
confined  himself  to  his  own  territories,  where 
only  Miss  Biddums,  and  she  feebly,  disputed  his 
sway. 

From  Miss  Biddums  he  had  picked  up  his  sim- 
ple theology  and  welded  it  to  the  legends  of  gods 
and  devils  that  he  had  learned  in  the  servants' 
quarters. 

To  Miss  Biddum  he  confided  with  equal  trust 
his  tattered  garments  and  his  more  serious  griefs. 
She  would  make  everything  whole.  She  knew 
exactly  how  the  Earth  had  been  born,  and  had 
reassured  the  trembling  soul  of  His  Majesty  the 
King  that  terrible  time  in  July  when  it  rained  con- 
tinuously for  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  and^ 
there  was  no  Ark  ready  and  all  the  ravens  had 
flown  away!  She  was  the  most  powerful  per- 
son with  whom  he  was  brought  into  contact — 
always  excepting  the  two  remote  and  silent  peo- 
ple beyond  the  nursery  door. 

How  was  His  Majesty  the  King  to  know  that, 
six  years  ago,  in  the  summer  of  his  birth,  Mrs. 
Austell,  turning  over  her  husband's  papers,  had 
come  upon  the  intemperate  letter  of  a  foolish 
woman  who  had  been  carried  away  by  the  silent 
man's  strength  and  personal  beauty  ?  How  could 
he  tell  what  evil  the  overlooked  slip  of  note-paper 
had  wrought  in  the  mind  of  a  desperately  jealous 


His  Majesty  the  King  503 

wife  ?  How  could  he,  despite  his  wisdom,  guess 
that  his  mother  had  chosen  to  make  of  it  excuse 
for  a  bar  and  a  division  between  herself  and  her 
husband,  that  strengthened  and  grew  harder  to 
break  with  each  year;  that  she,  having  unearthed 
this  skeleton  in  the  cupboard,  had  trained  it  into 
a  household  God  which  should  be  about  their 
path  and  about  their  bed,  and  poison  all  their 
ways  ? 

These  things  were  beyond  the  province  of  His 
Majesty  the  King.  He  only  knew  that  his  father 
was  daily  absorbed  in  some  mysterious  work  for 
a  thing  called  the  Sirkar  and  that  his  mother  was 
the  victim  alternately  of  the  Nautch  and  the  Bur- 
rahhana.  To  these  entertainments  she  was  es- 
corted by  a  Captain-Man  for  whom  His  Majesty 
the  King  had  no  regard. 

"  He  doesnt  laugh,"  he  argued  with  Miss  Bid- 
dums,  who  would  fain  have  taught  him  charity. 
"He  only  makes  faces  wiv  his  mouf,  and  when 
he  wants  to  o-muse  me  1  am  «o/o-mused."  And 
His  Majesty  the  King  shook  his  head  as  one  who 
knew  the  deceitfulness  of  this  world. 

Morning  and  evening  it  was  his  duty  to  salute 
his  father  and  mother — the  former  with  a  grave 
shake  of  the  hand,  and  the  latter  with  an  equally 
grave  kiss.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  put  his  arms 
round  his  mother's  neck,  in  the  fashion  he  used 
toward   Miss  Biddums.     The  openwork  of  his 


504  Indian   Tales 

sleeve-edge  caught  in  an  earring,  and  the  last  stage 
of  His  Majesty's  little  overture  was  a  suppressed 
scream  and  summary  dismissal  to  the  nursery. 

"It's  w'ong,"  thought  His  Majesty  the  King, 
"to  hug  Memsahibs  wiv  fmgs  in  veir  ears.  I 
will  amember."  He  never  repeated  the  experi- 
ment. 

Miss  Biddums,  it  must  be  confessed,  spoiled  him 
as  much  as  his  nature  admitted,  in  some  sort  of 
recompense  for  what  she  called  "the  hard  ways 
of  his  Papa  and  Mamm.a."  She,  like  her  charge, 
knew  nothing  of  the  trouble  between  man  and 
wife — the  savage  contempt  for  a  woman's  stu- 
pidity on  the  one  side,  or  the  dull,  rankling  anger 
on  the  other.  Miss  Biddums  had  looked  after 
many  little  children  in  her  time,  and  served  in 
many  establishments.  Being  a  discreet  woman, 
she  observed  little  and  said  less,  and,  when  her 
pupils  went  over  the  sea  to  the  Great  Unknown 
which  she,  with  touching  confidence  in  her  hear- 
ers, called  "Home,"  packed  up  her  slender  be- 
longings and  sought  for  employment  afresh,  lav- 
ishing all  her  love  on  each  successive  batch  of  in- 
grates.  Only  His  Majesty  the  King  had  repaid 
her  affection  with  interest;  and  in  his  uncompre- 
hending ears  she  had  lold  the  tale  of  nearly  all 
her  hopes,  her  aspirations,  the  hopes  that  were 
dead,  and  the  dazzling  glories  of  her  ancestral 
home  in  "Gz/cutta,  close  to  Wellington  Square." 


His  Majesty  the  King  505 

Everything  above  the  average  was  in  the  eyes 
of  His  Majesty  the  King  "  Calcutta  good."  When 
Miss  Biddums  had  crossed  his  royal  will,  he  re- 
versed the  epithet  to  vex  that  estimable  lady, 
and  all  things  evil  were,  until  the  tears  of  repent- 
ance swept  away  spite,  "  Calcutta  bad," 

ISow  and  again  Miss  Biddums  begged  for  him 
the  rare  pleasure  of  a  day  in  the  society  of  the 
Commissioner's  child — the  wilful  four-year-old 
Patsie,  who,  to  the  intense  amazement  of  His 
Majesty  the  King,  was  idolized  by  her  parents. 
On  thinking  the  question  out  at  length,  by  roads 
unknown  to  those  who  have  left  childhood  be- 
hind, he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Patsie  was 
petted  because  she  wore  a  big  blue  sash  and  yel- 
low hair. 

This  precious  discovery  he  kept  to  himself. 
The  yellow  hair  was  absolutely  beyond  his 
power,  his  ov/n  tousled  wig  being  potato-brown; 
but  something  might  be  done  toward  the  blue 
sash.  He  tied  a  large  knot  in  his  mosquito-cur- 
tains in  order  to  remember  to  consult  Patsie  on 
their  next  meeting.  She  was  the  only  child  he 
had  ever  spoken  to,  and  almost  the  only  one  that 
he  had  ever  seen.  The  little  memory  and  the 
very  large  and  ragged  knot  held  good. 

"Patsie,  lend  me  your  blue  wiband,"  said  His 
Majesty  the  King. 

"You'll   bewy    it,"    said    Patsie,    doubtfully, 


5o6  Indian   Tales 

mindful  of  certain  fearful  atrocities  committed  on 
her  doll. 

"No,  I  won't — twoofanhonor.  It's  for  me  to 
wear." 

"Pooh!"  said  Patsie.  "Boys  don't  wear 
sa-ashes.     Zey's  only  for  dirls." 

"  I  didn't  know."  The  face  of  His  Majesty  the 
King  fell. 

"Who  wants  ribands.^  Are  you  playing 
horses,  chickabiddies  .?"  said  the  Commissioner's 
wife,  stepping  into  the  veranda. 

"Toby  wanted  my  sash,"  explained  Patsie. 

"1  don't  now,"  said  His  Majesty  the  King, 
hastily,  feeling  that  with  one  of  these  terrible 
"grown-ups"  his  poor  little  secret  would  be 
shamelessly  wrenched  from  him,  and  perhaps 
— most  burning  desecration  of  all — laughed  at. 

"I'll  give  you  a  cracker-cap,"  said  the  Com- 
missioner's wife.  "Come  along  with  me,  Toby, 
and  we'll  choose  it." 

The  cracker-cap  was  a  stiff,  three-pointed  ver- 
milion-and-tinsel  splendor.  His  Majesty  the 
King  fitted  it  on  his  royal  brow.  The  Commis- 
sioner's wife  had  a  face  that  children  instinctively 
trusted,  and  her  action,  as  she  adjusted  the  top- 
pling middle  spike,  was  tender. 

"  Will  it  do  as  well  }  "  stammered  His  Majesty 
the  King. 

"As  what,  little  one?" 


His  Majesty  the  King  507 

"As  ve  wiban?" 

"  Oh,  quite.  Go  and  look  at  yourself  in  the 
glass." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  all  sincerity  and  to 
help  forward  any  absurd  "dressing-up  "  amuse- 
ment that  the  children  might  take  into  their 
minds.  But  the  young  savage  has  a  keen  sense 
of  the  ludicrous.  His  Majesty  the  King  swung 
the  great  cheval-glass  down,  and  saw  his  head 
crowned  with  the  staring  horror  of  a  fool's  cap — 
a  thing  which  his  father  would  rend  to  pieces  if 
it  ever  came  into  his  office.  He  plucked  it  off, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"Toby,"  said  the  Com.missioner's  wife, 
gravely,  "you  shouldn't  give  way  to  temper.  I 
am  very  sorry  to  see  it.     It's  wrong." 

His  Majesty  the  King  sobbed  inconsolably,  and 
the  heart  of  Patsie's  mother  was  touched.  She 
drew  the  child  on  to  her  knee.  Clearly  it  was 
not  temper  alone. 

"What  is  it,  Toby?  Won't  you  tell  me? 
Aren't  you  well?" 

The  torrent  of  sobs  and  speech  met,  and 
fought  for  a  time,  with  chokings  and  gulpings 
and  gasps.  Then,  in  a  sudden  rush,  His  Majesty 
the  King  was  delivered  of  a  few  inarticulate 
sounds,  followed  by  the  words: — "Go  a — way 
you — dirty — little  debbil!  " 

"  Toby !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 


5o8  Indian   Tales 

"It's  what  he'd  say,  I  know  it  is!  He  said 
vat  when  vere  was  only  a  little,  little  eggy  mess, 
on  my  t-t-unic;  and  he'd  say  it  again,  and  laugh, 
if  I  went  in  wif  vat  on  my  head." 

"Who  would  say  that?" 

"  M-m-my  Papa!  And  I  fought  if  I  had  ve 
blue  wiban,  he'd  let  me  play  in  ve  waste-paper 
basket  under  ve  table." 

"  IVhat  blue  riband,  childie  ?" 

"  Ve  same  vat  Patsie  had — ve  big  blue  wiban 
w-w-wound  my  t-ttummy !  " 

"What  is  it,  Toby.^  There's  something  on 
your  mind.  Tell  me  all  about  it,  and  perhaps  I 
can  help." 

"Isn't  anyfing,"  sniffed  His  Majesty,  mind- 
ful of  his  manhood,  and  raising  his  head  from 
the  motherly  bosom  upon  which  it  was  rest- 
ing. "  I  only  fought  vat  you — you  petted  Patsie 
'cause  she  had  ve  blue  wiban,  and — and  if  I'd 
had  ve  blue  wiban  too,  m-my  Papa  w-would  pet 
me." 

The  secret  was  out,  and  His  Majesty  the  King 
sobbed  bitterly  in  spite  of  the  arms  round  him, 
and  the  murmur  of  comfort  on  his  heated  little 
forehead. 

Enter  Patsie  tumultuously,  embarrassed  by 
several  lengths  of  the  Commissioner's  pet  mah- 
seer-rod.  "  Tum  along,  Toby!  Zere's  a  chu- 
chu  lizard  in  ze  chick,  and  I've  told  Chimo  to 


His  Majesty  the  King  509 

watch  him  till  we  turn.  If  we  poke  him  wiz  zis 
his  tail  will  go  wigg/e-uiggie  Miid  fall  off.  Tum 
along!    I  can't  weach." 

"I'm  comin',"  said  His  Majesty  the  King, 
climbing  down  from  the  Commissioner's  wife's 
knee  after  a  hasty  kiss. 

Two  minutes  later,  the  clm-chu  lizard's  tail  was 
wriggling  on  the  matting  of  the  veranda,  and  the 
children  v/ere  gravely  poking  it  with  splinters 
from  the  chick,  to  urge  its  exhausted  vitality  into 
"just  one  wiggle  more,  'cause  it  doesn't  hurt 
chu-chii." 

The  Commissioner's  wife  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  watched: — "Poor  little  mite!  A  blue 
sash  .  .  .  and  my  own  precious  Patsie!  I 
wonder  if  the  best  of  us,  or  we  who  love  them 
best,  ever  understand  what  goes  on  in  their  topsy- 
turvy little  heads." 

A  big  tear  splashed  on  the  Commissioner's 
wife's  wedding-ring,  and  she  went  indoors  to 
devise  a  tea  for  the  benefit  of  His  Majesty  the 
King. 

"Their  souls  aren't  in  their  tummies  at  that 
age  in  this  climate,"  said  the  Commissioner's 
wife,  "but  they  are  not  far  off.  I  wonder  if  I 
could  make  Mrs.  Austell  understand.  Poor  little 
fellow! " 

With  simple  craft,  the  Commissioner's  wife 
called  on  Mrs,  Austell  and  spoke  long  and  lov- 


5IO  Indian  Tales 

^ngly  about  children;  inquiring  specially  for  His 
Majesty  the  King. 

"  He's  with  his  governess,"'  said  Mrs.  Austell, 
and  the  tone  intimated  that  she  was  not  inter- 
ested. 

The  Commissioner's  wife,  unskilled  in  the  art 
of  war,  continued  her  questionings.  "I  don't 
know,''  said  Mrs.  Austell.  "These  things  are 
left  to  Miss  Biddums,  and,  of  course,  she  does 
not  ill-treat  the  child." 

The  Commissioner's  wife  left  hastily.  The 
last  sentence  jarred  upon  her  nerves.  "Doesn't 
ill-treat  the  child!  As  if  that  were  all!  I  won- 
der what  Tom  would  say  if  1  only  '  didn't  ill- 
treat'  Patsie!  " 

Thenceforward,  His  Majesty  the  King  was  an 
honored  guest  at  the  Commissioner's  house,  and 
the  chosen  friend  of  Patsie,  with  whom  he  blun- 
dered into  as  many  scrapes  as  the  compound  and 
the  servants'  quarters  afforded.  Patsie's  Mamma 
was  always  ready  to  give  counsel,  help,  and 
sympathy,  and,  if  need  were  and  callers  few,  to 
enter  into  their  games  with  an  abandon  that 
would  have  shocked  the  sleek-haired  subalterns 
who  squirm.ed  painfully  in  their  chairs  v/hen  they 
came  to  call  on  her  whom  they  profanely  nick- 
named "Mother  Bunch." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  Patsie  and  Patsie's  Mamma, 
and  the  love  that  these  two  lavished  upon  him. 


His  Majesty  the  King  5 1 1 

His  Majesty  the  King  fell  grievously  from  grace, 
and  committed  no  less  a  sin  than  that  of  theft — 
unknown,  it  is  true,  but  burdensome. 

There  came  a  man  to  the  door  one  day,  when 
His  Majesty  was  playing  in  the  hall  and  the 
bearer  had  gone  to  dinner,  with  a  packet  for 
his  Majesty's  Mamma.  And  he  put  it  upon  the 
hall-table,  said  that  there  was  no  answer,  and 
departed. 

Presently,  the  pattern  of  the  dado  ceased  to  in- 
terest His  Majesty,  while  the  packet,  a  white, 
neatly  wrapped  one  of  fascinating  shape,  inter- 
ested him  very  much  indeed.  His  Mamma  was 
out,  so  was  Miss  Biddums,  and  there  was  pink 
string  round  the  packet.  He  greatly  desired  pink 
string.  I'  would  help  him  in  many  of  his  little 
businesses — the  haulage  across  the  floor  of  his 
small  cane-chair,  the  torturing  of  Chimo,  who 
could  never  understand  harness — and  so  forth. 
If  he  took  the  string  it  would  be  his  own,  and 
nobody  would  be  any  the  wiser.  He  certainly 
could  not  pluck  up  sufficient  courage  to  ask 
Mamma  for  it.  Wherefore,  mounting  upon  a 
chair,  he  carefully  untied  the  string  and,  behold, 
the  stiff  white  paper  spread  out  in  four  direc- 
tions, and  revealed  a  beautiful  little  leather  box 
with  gold  lines  upon  it!  He  tried  to  replace  the 
string,  but  that  was  a  failure.  So  he  opened  the 
box  to  get  full  satisfaction  for  his  iniquity,  and 


512  Indian  Tales 

saw  a  most  beautiful  Star  that  shone  and  winked, 
and  was  altogether  lovely  and  desirable. 

"Vat,"  said  His  Majesty,  meditatively,  "is  a 
'parkle  cwov/n,  like  what  1  will  wear  v/hen  1  go 
to  heaven.  I  will  wear  it  on  my  head — Miss 
Biddums  says  so.  I  would  like  to  wear  it  now. 
I  would  like  to  play  wiv  it.  1  will  take  it  away 
and  play  wiv  it,  very  careful,  until  Mamma  asks 
for  it.  1  fink  it  was  bought  for  me  to  play  wiv 
— same  as  my  cart." 

His  Majesty  the  King  was  arguing  against  his 
conscience,  and  he  knew  it,  for  he  thought  im- 
mediately after:  "Never  mind.  I  will  keep  it  to 
play  wiv  until  Mamma  says  where  is  it,  and  then 
1  will  say: — 'I  tookt  it  and  I  am  sorry.'  1  will 
not  hurt  it  because  it  is  a  'parkle  cwown.  But 
Miss  Biddums  will  tell  me  to  put  it  back.  I  will 
ir.ot  shov  il  to  Miss  Biddums." 

If  Mamma  had  come  in  at  that  moment  all 
would  have  gone  well.  She  did  not,  and  His 
Majesty  the  King  stuffed  paper,  case,  and  jewel 
into  the  breast  of  his  blouse  and  marched  to  the 
nursery. 

"When  Mamma  asks  I  will  tell,"  was  the  salve 
that  he  laid  upon  his  conscience.  But  Mamma 
never  asked,  and  for  three  whole  days  His  Majesty 
the  King  gloated  over  his  treasure.  It  M^as  of  no 
earthly  use  to  him,  but  it  was  splendid,  and,  for 
aught  he   knew,  something  dropped  from  the 


His  Majesty  the  King  5 1 3 

heavens  themselves.  Still  Mamma  made  no  in- 
quiries, and  it  seemed  to  him,  in  his  furtive 
peeps,  as  though  the  shiny  stones  grew  dim. 
What  was  the  use  of  a  'parkle  cwown  if  it  made 
a  little  boy  feel  all  bad  in  his  inside.?  He  had  the 
pink  string  as  well  as  the  other  treasure,  but 
greatly  he  wished  that  he  had  not  gone  beyond 
the  string,  it  was  his  first  experience  of  iniq- 
uity, and  it  pained  him  after  the  flush  of  posses- 
sion and  secret  delight  in  the  "'parkle  cwown" 
had  died  away. 

Each  day  that  he  delayed  rendered  confession 
to  the  people  beyond  the  nursery  doors  more  im- 
possible. Now  and  again  he  determined  to  put 
himself  in  the  path  of  the  beautifully  attired  lady 
as  she  was  going  out,  and  explain  that  he  and  no 
one  else  was  the  possessor  of  a  "  'parkle  cwown," 
most  beautiful  and  quite  uninquired  for.  But  she 
passed  hurriedly  to  her  carriage,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity was  gone  before  His  Majesty  the  King 
could  draw  the  deep  breath  which  clinches  noble 
resolve.  The  dread  secret  cut  him  off  from  Miss 
Biddums,  Patsie,  and  the  Commissioner's  wife, 
and — doubly  hard  fate — when  he  brooded  over  it 
Patsie  said,  and  told  her  mother,  that  he  was 
cross. 

The  days  were  very  long  to  His  Majesty  the 
King,  and  the  nights  longer  still.  Miss  Biddums 
had   informed  him,  m.ore  than  once,  what  was 


514  Indian  Tales 

the  ultimate  destiny  of  "fieves,"  and  when  he 
passed  the  interminable  mud  flanks  of  the  Cen- 
tral Jail,  he  shook  in  his  little  strapped  shoes. 

But  release  came  after  an  afternoon  spent  in 
playing  boats  by  the  edge  of  the  tank  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden.  His  Majesty  the  King  went 
to  tea,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  memory,  the 
meal  revolted  him.  His  nose  was  very  cold,  and 
his  cheeks  were  burning  hot.  There  was  a 
weight  about  his  feet,  and  he  pressed  his  head 
several  times  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not  swell- 
ing as  he  sat. 

"1  feel  vevy  funny,"  said  His  Majesty  the 
King,  rubbing  his  nose.  "  Vere's  a  buzz-buzz 
in  my  head." 

He  went  to  bed  quietly.  Miss  Biddums  was 
out  and  the  bearer  undressed  him. 

The  sin  of  the  "'parkle  cwown  "  was  forgot- 
ten in  the  acuteness  of  the  discomfort  to  which 
he  roused  after  a  leaden  sleep  of  some  hours. 
He  was  thirsty,  and  the  bearer  had  forgotten  to 
leave  the  drinking-water.  "Miss  Biddums! 
Miss  Biddums!    I'm  so  kirsty!  " 

No  answer.  Miss  Biddums  had  leave  to  attend 
the  wedding  of  a  Calcutta  schoolmate.  His  Maj- 
esty the  King  had  forgotten  that. 

"I  want  a  dwink  of  water!  "  he  cried-  but  his 
voice  was  dried  up  in  his  throat.  "I  want  a 
dwink!    Vere  is  ve  glass  }  " 


His  Majesty  the  King  515 

He  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  round.  There 
was  a  murmur  of  voices  from  the  other  side  of 
the  nursery  door.  It  was  better  to  face  the  ter- 
rible unknown  than  to  choke  in  the  dark.  He 
slipped  out  of  bed,  but  his  feet  were  strangely 
wilful,  and  he  reeled  once  or  twice.  Then  he 
pushed  the  door  open  and  staggered — a  puffed 
and  purple-faced  little  figure — into  the  brilliant 
light  of  the  dining-room  full  of  pretty  ladies. 

"I'm  vevy  hot!  I'm  vevy  uncomfitivle," 
moaned  His  Majesty  the  King,  clinging  to  the 
portiere,  "andvere's  no  water  in  ve  glass,  and 
I'm  so  kirsty.     Give  me  a  dwink  of  water." 

An  apparition  in  black  and  white — His  Maj- 
esty the  King  could  hardly  see  distinctly — lifted 
him  up  to  the  level  of  the  table,  and  felt  his 
wrists  and  forehead.  The  water  came,  and  he 
drank  deeply,  his  teeth  chattering  against  the 
edge  of  the  tumbler.  Then  every  one  seemed  to 
go  away — every  one  except  the  huge  man  in 
black  and  white,  who  carried  him  back  to  his 
bed;  the  mother  and  father  following.  And  the 
sin  of  the  "  'parkle  cwown  "  rushed  back  and 
took  possession  of  the  terrified  soul. 

"I'm  a  fief!"  he  gasped.  "I  want  to  tell 
Miss  Biddums  vat  I'm  a  fief.  Vere  is  Miss  Bid- 
dums?" 

Miss  Biddums  had  come  and  was  bending  over 
him.     "I'm   a  fief,"    he  whispered.     "A  tlef— 


5i6  Indian   Tales 

like  ve  men  in  tlie  pwison.  But  I'll  tell  now.  I 
tookt  ...  I  tookt  ve  'parkle  cwown  when 
the  man  that  came  left  it  in  ve  hall.  I  bwoke  ve 
paper  and  ve  little  bwown  box,  and  it  looked 
shiny,  and  1  tookt  it  to  play  wif,  and  I  was 
afwaid.  It's  in  ve  dooly-box  at  ve  bottom.  No 
one  never  asked  for  it,  but  I  was  afwaid.  Oh, 
go  an'  get  ve  dooly-box!" 

Miss  Biddums  obediently  stooped  to  the  lowest 
shelf  of  the  alniirah  and  unearthed  the  big  paper 
box  in  which  His  Majesty  the  King  kept  his  dear- 
est possessions.  Under  the  tin  soldiers,  and  a 
layer  of  mud  pellets  for  a  pellet-bow,  winked 
and  blazed  a  diamond  star,  wrapped  roughly  in  a 
half-sheet  of  note-paper  whereon  were  a  few 
words. 

Somebody  was  crying  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
/Lwd  a  man's  hand  touched  the  forehead  of  His 
Majesty  the  King,  who  grasped  the  packet  and 
spread  it  on  the  bed. 

"  Vat  is  ve  'parkle  cwown,"  he  said,  and  wept 
bitterly;  for  now  that  he  had  made  restitution  he 
would  fain  have  kept  the  shining  splendor  with 
him. 

"  It  concerns  you  too,"  said  a  voice  at  the  head 
of  the  bed.  "Read  the  note.  This  is  not  the 
time  to  keep  back  anything." 

The  note  was  curt,  very  much  to  the  point, 
and  signed  by  a  single  initial.     "  If  you  wear  this 


His  Majesty  the  King  517 

to-7norrow  night  I  shall  know  -what  to  expect." 
The  date  was  three  weeks  old. 

A  whisper  followed,  and  the  deeper  voice  re- 
turned: "  And  you  drifted  as  far  apart  as  that ! 
I  think  it  makes  us  quits  now,  doesn't  it?  Oh, 
can'l  we  drop  this  folly  once  and  for  all  ?  Is  it 
worth  it,  darling?" 

"Kiss  me  too,"  said  His  Majesty  the  King, 
dreamily.     "You  isn't  vevy  angwy,  is  you  ?  " 

The  fever  burned  itself  out,  and  His  Majesty 
the  King  slept. 

When  he  waked,  it  was  in  a  new  world — 
peopled  by  his  father  and  mother  as  well  as  Miss 
Biddums:  and  there  was  much  love  in  that  world 
and  no  morsel  of  fear,  and  more  petting  than  was 
good  for  several  little  boys.  His  Majesty  the 
King  was  too  young  to  moralize  on  the  uncer- 
tainty of  things  human,  or  he  would  have  been 
impressed  with  the  singular  advantages  of  crime 
^ay,  black  sin.  Behold,  he  had  stolen  the 
"'parkle  cwown,"  and  his  reward  was  Love, 
and  the  right  to  play  in  the  waste-paper  basket 
under  the  table  "  for  always."' 


He  trotted  over  to  spend  an  afternoon  with 
Patsie,  and  the  Commissioner's  wife  would  have 
kissed  him.  "No,  not  vere,"  said  His  Majesty 
the  King,  with  superb   insolence,    fencing   one 


5i8 


Indian   Tales 


corner  of  his  mouth  with  his  hand.     "Vat's  my 
Mamma's  place — vere  she  l<.isses  me." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Commissioner's  wife,  briefly. 
Then  to  herself:  '•  Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
glad  for  his  sake.  Children  are  selfish  little 
grubs  and— I've  got  my  Patsie." 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MOR- 
ROWBIE   JUKES 

Alive  or  dead — there  is  no  other  way. — Native  Proverb. 

THERE  is,  as  the  conjurers  say,  no  deception 
about  this  tale.  Jukes  by  accident  stum- 
bled upon  a  village  that  is  well  known  to  exist, 
though  he  is  the  only  Englishman  who  has  been 
there.  A  somewhat  similar  institution  used  to 
tlourish  on  the  outskirts  of  Calcutta,  and  there  is 
a  story  that  if  you  go  into  the  heart  of  Bikanir, 
which  is  in  the  heart  of  the  Great  Indian  Desert, 
you  shall  come  across  not  a  village  but  a  town 
where  the  Dead  who  did  not  die  but  may  not 
live  have  established  their  headquarters.  And, 
since  it  is  perfectly  true  that  in  the  same  Desert 
is  a  wonderful  city  where  all  the  rich  money- 
lenders retreat  after  they  have  made  their  for- 
tunes (fortunes  so  vast  that  the  owners  cannot 
trust  even  the  strong  hand  of  the  Government  to 
protect  them,  but  take  refuge  in  the  waterless 
sands),  and  drive  sumptuous  C-spring  barouches, 
and  buy  beautiful  girls  and  decorate  their  palaces 
with  gold  and  ivory  and  Minton  tiles  and  mother- 
o'-pearl,  I  do  not  see  why  Jukes's  tale  should  not 
519 


520  Indian  Tales 

be  true.  He  Is  a  Civil  Engineer,  with  a  head  for 
plans  and  distances  and  things  of  that  kind,  and 
he  certainly  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  invent 
imaginary  traps.  He  could  earn  more  by  doing 
his  legitimate  work.  He  never  varies  the  tale  in 
the  telling,  and  grows  very  hot  and  indignant 
when  he  thinks  of  the  disrespectful  treatment  he 
received.  He  wrote  this  quite  straightforwardly 
at  first,  but  he  has  since  touched  it  up  in  places 
and  introduced  Moral  Reflections,  thus: 

In  the  beginning  it  all  arose  from  a  slight  at- 
tack of  fever.  My  work  necessitated  my  being 
in  camp  for  some  months  between  Pakpattan 
and  Mubarakpur — a  desolate  sandy  stretch  of 
country  as  every  one  who  has  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  go  there  may  know.  My  coolies  were 
neither  more  nor  less  exasperating  than  other 
gangs,  and  my  work  demanded  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  keep  me  from  moping,  had  I  been  in- 
clined to  so  unmanly  a  weakness. 

On  the  23d  December,  1884,  1  felt  a  little  fever- 
ish. There  was  a  full  moon  at  the  time,  and,  in 
consequence,  every  dog  near  my  tent  was  baying 
it.  The  brutes  assembled  in  twos  and  threes  and 
drove  me  frantic.  A  few  days  previously  I  had 
shot  one  loud-mouthed  singer  and  suspended  his 
carcass  in  terror  em  about  fifty  yards  from  my 
tent-door.     But  his  friends  fell  upon,  fought  for, 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbt'e  Jukes  5  2 1 

and  ultimately  devoured  the  body:  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  sang  their  hymns  of  thanksgiving 
afterward  with  renewed  energy. 

The  light-headedness  which  accompanies  fever 
acts  differently  on  different  men.  My  irritation 
gave  way,  after  a  short  time,  to  a  fixed  deter- 
mination to  slaughter  one  huge  black  and  white 
beast  who  had  been  foremost  in  song  and  first 
in  flight  throughout  the  evening.  Thanks  to  a 
shaking  hand  and  a  giddy  head  I  had  already 
missed  him  twice  with  both  barrels  of  my  shot- 
gun, when  it  struck  me  that  my  best  plan  would 
be  to  ride  him  down  in  the  open  and  finish  him 
off  with  a  hog-spear.  This,  of  course,  was 
merely  the  semi-delirious  notion  of  a  fever  pa- 
tient; but  I  remember  that  it  struck  me  at  the 
time  as  being  eminently  practical  and  feasible. 

I  therefore  ordered  my  groom  to  saddle  Pornic 
and  bring  him  round  quietly  to  the  rear  of  my 
tent.  When  the  pony  was  ready,  I  stood  at  his 
head  prepared  to  mount  and  dash  out  as  soon  as 
the  dog  should  again  lift  up  his  voice.  Pornic, 
by  the  way,  had  not  been  out  of  his  pickets  for 
a  couple  of  days;  the  night  air  was  crisp  and 
chilly;  and  I  was  armed  with  a  specially  long 
and  sharp  pair  of  persuaders  with  which  I  had 
been  rousing  a  sluggish  cob  that  afternoon.  You 
will  easily  believe,  then,  that  when  he  was  let  go 
he  went  quickly.     In  one  moment,  for  the  brute 


522  fndian  1  ales 

bolted  as  straight  as  a  die,  the  tent  was  left  far 
behind,  and  we  were  flying  over  the  smooth 
sandy  soil  at  racing  speed.  In  another  we  had 
passed  the  wretched  dog,  and  1  had  almost  for- 
gotten why  it  was  that  I  had  taken  horse  and 
hog-spear. 

The  delirium  of  fever  and  the  excitement  of 
rapid  motion  through  the  air  must  have  taken 
away  the  remnant  of  my  senses.  I  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  standing  upright  in  my  stirrups, 
and  of  brandishing  my  hog-spear  at  the  great 
white  Moon  that  looked  down  so  calmly  on  my 
mad  gallop;  and  of  shouting  challenges  to  the 
camel-thorn  bushes  as  they  whizzed  past.  Once 
or  twice,  I  believe,  I  swayed  forward  on  Pornic's 
neck,  and  literally  hung  on  by  my  spurs — as  the 
marks  next  morning  showed. 

The  wretched  beast  went  forward  like  a  thing 
possessed,  over  what  seemed  to  be  a  limitless 
expanse  of  moonlit  sand.  Next,  I  remember, 
the  ground  rose  suddenly  in  front  of  us,  and  as 
we  topped  the  ascent  I  saw  the  waters  of  the 
Sutlej  shining  like  a  silver  bar  below.  Then 
Pornic  blundered  heavily  on  his  nose,  and  we 
rolled  together  down  some  unseen  slope. 

I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  for  when  I  re- 
covered 1  was  lying  on  my  stomach  in  a  heap  of 
soft  white  sand,  and  the  dawn  was  beginning  to 
break  dimly  over  the  edge  of  the  slope  down 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Juhes  523 

which  I  had  fallen.  As  the  light  grew  stronger  1 
saw  that  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  horseshoe- 
shaped  crater  of  sand,  opening  on  one  side  di- 
rectly on  to  the  shoals  of  the  Sutlej.  My  fever 
had  altogether  left  me,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  a  slight  dizziness  in  the  head,  I  felt  no  bad  ef- 
fects from  the  fall  over  night. 

Pornic,  who  was  standing  a  few  yards  away, 
was  naturally  a  good  deal  exhausted,  but  had  not 
hurt  himself  in  the  least.  His  saddle,  a  favorite 
polo  one,  was  much  knocked  about,  and  had  been 
twisted  under  his  belly.  It  took  me  some  time 
to  put  him  to  rights,  and  in  the  meantime  I  had 
ample  opportunities  of  observing  the  spot  into 
which  1  had  so  foolishly  dropped. 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  tedious,  I  must 
describe  it  at  length;  inasmuch  as  an  accurate 
mental  picture  of  its  peculiarities  will  be  of  ma- 
terial assistance  in  enabling  the  reader  to  under- 
stand what  follows. 

Imagine  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  a  horse- 
shoe-shaped crater  of  sand  with  steeply  graded 
sand  walls  about  thirty -five  feet  high.  (The 
slope,  I  fancy,  must  have  been  about  65°.)  This 
crater  enclosed  a  level  piece  of  ground  about  fifty 
yards  long  by  thirty  at  its  broadest  part,  with  a 
rude  well  in  the  centre.  Round  the  bottom  of 
the  crater,  about  three  feet  from  the  level  of  the 
ground  proper,  ran  a  series  of  eighty-three  semi- 


5  24  Indian   Tales 

circular,  ovoid,  square,  and  multilateral  holes,  all 
about  three  feet  at  the  mouth.  Each  hole  on  in- 
spection showed  that  it  was  carefully  shored  in- 
ternally with  drift-wood  and  bamboos,  and  over 
the  mouth  a  wooden  drip-board  projected,  like 
the  peak  of  a  jockey's  cap,  for  two  feet.  No 
sign  of  life  was  visible  in  these  tunnels,  but  a 
most  sickening  stench  pervaded  the  entire  am- 
phitheatre— a  stench  fouler  than  any  which  my 
wanderings  in  Indian  villages  have  introduced 
me  to. 

Having  remounted  Pornic,  who  was  as  anxious 
as  1  to  get  back  to  camp,  I  rode  round  the  base  of 
the  horseshoe  to  find  some  place  whence  an  exit 
would  be  practicable.  The  inhabitants,  whoever 
they  might  be,  had  not  thought  fit  to  put  in  an 
appearance,  so  1  was  left  to  my  own  devices. 
My  first  attempt  to  "rush"  Pornic  up  the  steep 
sand-banks  showed  me  that  I  had  fallen  into  a 
trap  exactly  on  the  same  model  as  that  which  the 
ant-lion  sets  for  its  prey.  At  each  step  the  shift- 
ing sand  poured  down  from  above  in  tons,  and 
rattled  on  the  drip-boards  of  the  holes  like  small 
shot.  A  couple  of  ineffectual  charges  sent  us 
both  rolling  down  to  the  bottom,  half  choked 
with  the  torrents  of  sand;  and  I  was  constrained 
to  turn  my  attention  to  the  river-bank. 

Here  everything  seemed  easy  enough.  The 
sand  hills  ran  down  to  the  river  edge,  it  is  true. 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  525 

but  ihere  were  plenty  of  shoals  and  shallows 
across  which  1  could  gallop  Pornic,  and  find  my 
way  back  to  terra  firma  by  turning  sharply  to 
the  right  or  the  left.  As  1  led  Pornic  over  the 
sands  1  was  startled  by  the  faint  pop  of  a  rifle 
across  the  river;  and  at  the  same  momenta  bullet 
dropped  with  a  sharp  ''whit"  close  to  Pornic's 
head. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the 
missile — a  regulation  Martini-Henry  "picket." 
About  five  hundred  yards  away  a  country-boat 
was  anchored  in  midstream ;  and  a  jet  of  smoke 
drifting  away  from  its  bows  in  the  still  morning 
air  showed  me  whence  the  delicate  attention  had 
come.  Was  ever  a  respectable  gentleman  in 
such  an  impasse?  The  treacherous  sand  slope 
allowed  no  escape  from  a  spot  which  I  had 
visited  most  involuntarily,  and  a  promenade  on 
the  river  frontage  was  the  signal  for  a  bombard- 
ment from  some  insane  native  in  a  boat.  I'm 
afraid  that  I  lost  my  temper  very  much  indeed. 

Another  bullet  reminded  me  that  I  had  better 
save  my  breath  to  cool  my  porridge;  and  I  re- 
treated hastily  up  the  sands  and  back  to  the 
horseshoe,  where  I  saw  that  the  noise  of  the  rifle 
had  drawn  sixty-five  human  beings  from  the 
badger-holes  which  I  had  up  till  that  point  sup- 
posed to  be  untenanted.  1  found  myself  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowd  of  spectators — about  forty  men, 


526  Indian  Tales 

twenty  women,  and  one  child  who  could  not 
have  been  more  than  five  years  old.  They  were 
all  scantily  clothed  in  that  salmon-colored  cloth 
which  one  associates  with  Hindu  mendicants, 
and,  at  first  sight,  gave  me  the  impression  of  a 
band  of  loathsome  fakirs.  The  filth  and  repul- 
siveness  of  the  assembly  were  beyond  all  des- 
cription, and  I  shuddered  to  think  what  their  life 
in  the  badger-holes  must  be. 

Even  in  these  days,  when  local  self-govern- 
ment has  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  a  native's 
respect  for  a  Sahib,  I  have  been  accustomed  to  a 
certain  amount  of  civility  from  my  inferiors,  and 
on  approaching  the  crowd  naturally  expected 
that  there  would  be  some  recognition  of  my 
presence.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was;  but  it 
was  by  no  means  what  I  had  looked  for. 

The  ragged  crew  actually  laughed  at  me — such 
laughter  I  hope  1  may  never  hear  again.  They 
cackled,  yelled,  whistled,  and  howled  as  I  walked 
into  their  midst;  some  of  them  literally  throwing 
themselves  down  on  the  ground  in  convulsions 
of  unholy  mirth.  In  a  moment  I  had  let  go 
Pornic's  head,  and,  irritated  beyond  expression  at 
the  morning's  adventure,  commenced  cuffing 
those  nearest  to  me  with  all  the  force  I  could. 
The  wretches  dropped  under  my  blows  like 
nine-pins,  and  the  laughter  gave  place  to  wails 
for  mercy;  while  those  yet  untouched  clasped 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  527 

me  round  the  knees,  imploring  me  in  all  sorts  of 
uncouth  tongues  to  spare  them. 

In  the  tumult,  and  just  when  I  was  feeling  very 
much  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  thus  easily 
given  way  to  my  temper,  a  thin,  high  voice  mur- 
mured in  English  from  behind  my  shoulder: — 
"Sahib!  Sahib!  Do  you  not  know  me?  Sahib, 
it  is  Gunga  Dass,  the  telegraph-master." 

I  spun  round  quickly  and  faced  the  speaker. 

Gunga  Dass  (I  have,  of  course,  no  hesitation  in 
mentioning  the  man's  real  name)  1  had  known 
four  years  before  as  a  Deccanee  Brahmin  loaned 
by  the  Punjab  Government  to  one  of  the  Khalsia 
States.  He  was  in  charge  of  a  branch  telegraph- 
office  there,  and  when  I  had  last  met  him  was  a 
jovial,  full-stomached,  portly  Government  serv- 
ant with  a  marvelous  capacity  for  making  bad 
puns  in  English — a  peculiarity  which  made  me 
remember  him  long  after  I  had  forgotten  his 
services  to  me  in  his  official  capacity.  It  is  sel- 
dom that  a  Hindu  makes  English  puns. 

Now,  however,  the  man  was  changed  beyond 
all  recognition.  Caste-mark,  stomach,  slate-col- 
ored continuations,  and  unctuous  speech  were  all 
gone.  I  looked  at  a  withered  skeleton,  turban- 
less  and  almost  naked,  with  long  matted  hair 
and  deep-set  codfish-eyes.  But  for  a  crescent- 
shaped  scar  on  the  left  cheek — the  result  of  an 
accident  for  which  I  was  responsible — I  should 


528  Indian  Tales 

never  have  knov/n  him.  But  it  was  indubitably 
Gunga  Dass,  and — for  this  1  was  thankful — an 
English-speaking  native  who  might  at  least  tell 
me  the  meaning  of  all  that  1  had  gone  through 
that  day. 

The  crowd  retreated  to  some  distance  as  I 
turned  toward  the  miserable  figure,  and  ordered 
him  to  show  me  some  method  of  escaping  from 
the  crater.  He  held  a  freshly  plucked  crow  in 
his  hand,  and  in  reply  to  my  question  climbed 
slowly  on  a  platform  of  sand  which  ran  in  front 
of  the  holes,  and  commenced  lighting  a  fire  there 
in  silence.  Dried  bents,  sand-poppies,  and  drift- 
wood burn  quickly;  and  1  derived  much  consola- 
tion from  the  fact  that  he  lit  them  with  an  ordi- 
nary sulphur-match.  When  they  were  in  a  bright 
glow,  and  the  crow  was  neatly  spitted  in  front 
thereof,  Gunga  Dass  began  without  a  word  of 
preamble: 

"There  are  only  two  kinds  of  men,  Sar.  The 
alive  and  the  dead.  When  you  are  dead  you  are 
dead,  but  when  you  are  alive  you  live."  (Here 
the  crow  demanded  his  attention  for  an  instant 
as  it  twirled  before  the  fire  in  danger  of  being 
burned  to  a  cinder.)  "If  you  die  at  home  and 
do  not  die  when  you  come  to  the  ghat  to  be 
burned  you  come  here." 

The  nature  of  the  reeking  village  was  made 
plain  now,  and  all  that  I  had  known  or  read  of 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  529 

the  grotesque  and  the  horrible  paled  before  the 
fact  just  communicated  by  the  ex-Brahmin.  Six- 
teen years  ago,  when  I  first  landed  in  Bombay,  I 
had  been  told  by  a  wandering  Armenian  of  the 
existence,  somewhere  in  India,  of  a  place  to 
which  such  Hindus  as  had  the  misfortune  to  re- 
cover from  trance  or  catalepsy  were  conveyed 
and  kept,  and  1  recollect  laughing  heartily  at 
what  1  was  then  pleased  to  consider  a  traveler's 
tale.  Sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  sand-trap,  the 
memory  of  Watson's  Hotel,  with  its  swinging 
punkahs,  white-robed  attendants,  and  the  sal- 
low-faced Armenian,  rose  up  in  my  mind  as  viv- 
idly as  a  photograph,  and  I  burst  into  a  loud  fit 
of  laughter.     The  contrast  was  too  absurd! 

Gunga  Dass,  as  he  bent  over  the  unclean  bird, 
watched  me  curiously.  Hindus  seldom  laugh, 
and  his  surroundings  were  not  such  as  to  move 
Gunga  Dass  to  any  undue  excess  of  hilarity.  He 
removed  the  crow  solemnly  from  the  wooden 
spit  and  as  solemnly  devoured  it.  Then  he  con- 
tinued his  story,  which  I  give  in  his  own  words: 

"In  epidemics  of  the  cholera  you  are  carried 
to  be  burned  almost  before  you  are  dead.  When 
you  come  to  the  riverside  the  cold  air,  perhaps, 
makes  you  alive,  and  then,  if  you  are  only  little 
alive,  mud  is  put  on  your  nose  and  mouth  and 
you  die  conclusively.  If  you  are  rather  more 
alive,  more  mud  is  put;  but  if  you  are  too  lively 


530  Indian   Tales 

they  let  you  go  and  take  you  away.  I  was  too 
lively,  and  made  protestation  with  anger  against 
the  indignities  that  they  endeavored  to  press 
upon  me.  In  those  days  I  was  Brahmin  and 
proud  man.  Now  I  am  dead  man  and  eat" — 
here  he  eyed  the  well-gnawed  breast  bone  with 
the  first  sign  of  emotion  that  1  had  seen  in  him 
since  we  met — "  crows,  and  other  things.  They 
took  me  from  my  sheets  when  they  saw  that  I 
was  too  lively  and  gave  me  medicines  for  one 
week,  and  I  survived  successfully.  Then  they 
sent  me  by  rail  from  my  place  to  Okara  Station, 
with  a  man  to  take  care  of  me;  and  at  Okara 
Station  we  met  two  other  men,  and  they  con- 
ducted we  three  on  camels,  in  the  night,  from 
Okara  Station  to  this  place,  and  they  propelled 
me  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  and  the  other 
two  succeeded,  and  I  have  been  here  ever  since 
two  and  a  half  years.  Once  I  was  Brahmin  and 
proud  man,  and  now  I  eat  crows." 

"  There  is  no  way  of  getting  out  ?  " 

"  None  of  what  kind  at  all.  When  1  first  came 
I  made  experiments  frequently  and  all  the  others 
also,  but  we  have  always  succumbed  to  the  sand 
which  is  precipitated  upon  our  heads." 

"But  surely,"  I  broke  in  at  this  point,  "the 
river-front  is  open,  and  it  is  worth  while  dodg- 
ing the  bullets;  while  at  night " — 

I  had  already  matured  a  rough  plan  of  escape 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  53 1 

which  a  natural  instinct  of  selfishness  forbade 
me  sharing  with  Gunga  Dass.  He,  however,  di- 
vined my  unspoken  thought  almost  as  soon  as  it 
was  formed;  and,  to  my  intense  astonishment, 
gave  vent  to  a  long  low  chuckle  of  derision — the 
laughter,  be  it  understood,  of  a  superior  or  at 
least  of  an  equal. 

"  You  will  not " — he  had  dropped  the  Sir  com- 
pletely after  his  opening  sentence — "make  any 
escape  that  way.  But  you  can  try.  1  have  tried. 
Once  only." 

The  sensation  of  nameless  terror  and  abject 
fear  which  1  had  in  vain  attempted  to  strive 
against  overmastered  me  completely.  My  long 
fast — it  was  now  close  upon  ten  o'clock,  and  I 
had  eaten  nothing  since  tiffin  on  the  previous 
day — combined  with  the  violent  and  unnatural 
agitation  of  the  ride  had  exhausted  me,  and  I 
verily  believe  that,  for  a  few  minutes,  I  acted  as 
one  mad.  1  hurled  myself  against  the  pitiless 
sand-slope.  I  ran  round  the  base  of  the  crater, 
blaspheming  and  praying  by  turns.  1  crawled 
out  among  the  sedges  of  the  river-front,  only  to 
be  driven  back  each  time  in  an  agony  of  nervous 
dread  by  the  rifle-bullets  which  cut  up  the  sand 
round  me — for  1  dared  not  face  the  death  of  a 
mad  dog  among  that  hideous  crowd — and  finally 
fell,  spent  and  raving,  at  the  curb  of  the  well. 
No  one  had  taken  the  slightest  notice  of  an  ex- 


532  Indian  Tales 

hibition  which  makes  me  blush  hotly  even  when 
I  think  of  it  now. 

Two  or  three  men  trod  on  my  panting  body  as 
they  drew  water,  but  they  were  evidently  used 
to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  had  no  time  to  waste 
upon  me.  The  situation  was  humiliating.  Gunga 
Dass,  indeed,  when  he  had  banked  the  embers  of 
his  fire  with  sand,  was  at  some  pains  to  throw 
half  a  cupful  of  fetid  water  over  my  head,  an 
attention  for  which  I  could  have  fallen  on  my 
knees  and  thanked  him,  but  he  was  laughing  all 
the  while  in  the  same  mirthless,  wheezy  key  that 
greeted  me  on  my  first  attempt  to  force  the 
shoals.  And  so,  in  a  semi-comatose  condition,  I 
lay  till  noon.  Then,  being  only  a  man  after  all,  I 
felt  hungry,  and  intimated  as  much  to  Gunga 
Dass,  whom  I  had  begun  to  regard  as  my  natural 
protector.  Following  the  impulse  of  the  outer 
world  when  dealing  with  natives,  I  put  my  hand 
into  my  pocket  and  drew  out  four  annas.  The 
absurdity  of  the  gift  struck  me  at  once,  and  I  was 
about  to  replace  the  money. 

Gunga  Dass,  however,  was  of  a  different 
opinion.  "Give  me  the  money,"  said  he;  "all 
you  have,  or  I  will  get  help,  and  we  will  kill 
you!"  All  this  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world! 

A  Briton's  first  impulse,  I  believe,  is  to  guard 
the  contents  of  his  pockets;  but  a  moment's  re- 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morroivbie  Jukes  533 

flection  convinced  me  of  the  futility  of  differing 
with  the  one  man  who  had  it  in  his  power  to 
make  me  comfortable;  and  with  whose  help  it 
was  possible  that  I  might  eventually  escape  from 
the  crater.  I  gave  him  all  the  money  in  my 
possession,  Rs.  9-8-5 — nine  rupees  eight  annas 
and  five  pie — for  I  always  keep  small  change  as 
bakshish  when  I  am  in  camp.  Gunga  Dass 
clutched  the  coins,  and  hid  them  at  once  in  his 
ragged  loin-cloth,  his  expression  changing  to 
something  diabolical  as  he  looked  round  to  assure 
himself  that  no  one  had  observed  uj. 

"  Now  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat," 
said  he. 

What  pleasure  the  possession  of  my  money 
could  have  afforded  him  I  am  unable  to  say;  but 
inasmuch  as  it  did  give  him  evident  delight  I 
was  not  sorry  that  1  had  parted  with  it  so  readily, 
for  I  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  had  me 
killed  if  I  had  refused.  One  does  not  protest 
against  the  vagaries  of  a  den  of  wild  beasts;  and 
my  companions  were  lower  than  any  beasts. 
While  I  devoured  what  Gunga  Dass  had  pro- 
vided, a  coarse  chapatti  and  a  cupful  of  the  foul 
well-water,  the  people  showed  not  the  faintest 
sign  of  curiosity — that  curiosity  which  is  so 
rampant,  as  a  rule,  in  an  Indian  village. 

I  could  even  fancy  that  they  despised  me.  At 
all  events  they  treated  me  with  the  most  chilling 


534  Indian  Tales 

indifference,  and  Gunga  Dass  was  nearly  as  bad. 
I  plied  him  with  questions  about  the  terrible 
village,  and  received  extremely  unsatisfactory 
answers.  So  far  as  I  could  gather,  it  had  been  in 
existence  from  time  immemorial — whence  I  con- 
cluded that  it  was  at  least  a  century  old — and 
during  that  time  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to 
escape  from  it.  [1  had  to  control  myself  here 
with  both  hands,  lest  the  blind  terror  should  lay 
hold  of  me  a  second  time  and  drive  me  raving 
round  the  crater.]  Gunga  Dass  took  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  emphasizing  this  point  and  in  watch- 
ing me  wince.  Nothing  that  1  could  do  would 
induce  him  to  tell  me  who  the  mysterious 
"  They"  were. 

"It  is  so  ordered,"  he  would  reply,  "and  I 
do  not  yet  know  any  one  who  has  disobeyed  the 
orders."  . 

"Only  wait  till  my  servants  find  that  I  am 
missing,"  I  retorted,  "and  I  promise  you  that 
this  place  shall  be  cleared  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson  in  civility,  too, 
my  friend." 

"Your  servants  would  be  torn  in  pieces 
before  they  came  near  this  place;  and,  besides, 
you  are  dead,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  not  your 
fault,  of  course,  but  none  the  less  you  are  dead 
and  buried." 

At  irregular  intervals  supplies  of  food,  I  was 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  535 

told,  were  dropped  down  from  the  land  side  into 
the  amphitheatre,  and  the  inhabitants  fought  for 
them  like  wild  beasts.  When  a  man  felt  his 
death  coming  on  he  retreated  to  his  lair  and  died 
there.  The  body  was  sometim.es  dragged  out  of 
the  hole  and  thrown  on  to  the  sand,  or  allowed 
to  rot  where  it  lay. 

The  phrase  "thrown  on  to  the  sand"  caught 
my  attention,  and  1  asked  Gunga  Dass  whether 
this  sort  of  thing  was  not  likely  to  breed  a  pesti- 
lence. 

"That,"  said  he,  with  another  of  his  wheezy 
chuckles,  "you  may  see  for  yourself  subse- 
quently. You  will  have  much  time  to  make 
observations." 

Whereat,  to  his  great  delight,  I  winced  once 
more  and  hastily  continued  the  conversation: — 
"And  how  do  you  live  here  from  day  to  day? 
What  do  you  do  } "  The  question  elicited  ex- 
actly the  same  answer  as  before — coupled  with 
the  information  that  "this  place  is  like  your 
European  heaven;  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage." 

Gunga  Dass  has  been  educated  at  a  Mission 
School,  and,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had  he  only 
changed  his  religion  "like  a  wise  man,"  might 
have  avoided  the  living  grave  which  was  now  his 
portion.  But  as  long  as  I  was  with  him  1  fancy 
he  was  happy. 


536  Indian  Tales 

Here  was  a  Sahib,  a  representative  of  the 
dominant  race,  helpless  as  a  child  and  completely 
at  the  mercy  of  his  native  neighbors.  In  a  de- 
liberate lazy  way  he  set  himself  to  torture  me  as 
a  schoolboy  would  devote  a  rapturous  half-hour 
to  watching  the  agonies  of  an  impaled  beetle,  or 
as  a  ferret  in  a  blind  burrow  might  glue  himself 
comfortably  to  the  neck  of  a  rabbit.  The  burden 
of  his  conversation  was  that  there  was  no  escape 
"of  no  kind  whatever,"  and  that  I  should  stay 
here  till  I  died  and  was  "thrown  on  to  the  sand." 
If  it  were  possible  to  forejudge  the  conversation 
of  the  Damned  on  the  advent  of  a  new  soul  in 
their  abode,  I  should  say  that  they  would  speak 
as  Gunga  Dass  did  to  me  throughout  that  long 
afternoon.  I  was  powerless  to  protest  or  an- 
swer; all  my  energies  being  devoted  to  a  struggle 
against  the  inexplicable  terror  that  threatened  to 
overwhelm  me  again  and  again.  1  can  compare 
the  feeling  to  nothing  except  the  struggles  of  a 
man  against  the  overpowering  nausea  of  the 
Channel  passage — only  my  agony  was  of  the 
spirit  and  infinitely  more  terrible. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  inhabitants  began  to 
appear  in  full  strength  to  catch  the  rays  0/  the 
afternoon  sun,  which  were  now  sloping  in  at  the 
mouth  of  the  crater.  They  assembled  in  little 
knots,  and  talked  among  themselves  without 
even  throwing  a  glance  in  my  direction.     About 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  537 

four  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  Gunga  Dass 
rose  and  dived  into  his  lair  for  a  moment, 
emerging  with  a  live  crow  in  his  hands.  The 
wretched  bird  was  in  a  most  draggled  and 
deplorable  condition,  but  seemed  to  be  in  no  way 
afraid  of  its  master.  Advancing  cautiously  to  the 
river  front,  Gunga  Dass  stepped  from  tussock  to 
tussock  until  he  had  reached  a  smooth  patch  of 
sand  directly  in  the  line  of  the  boat's  fire.  The 
occupants  of  the  boat  took  no  notice.  Here  he 
stopped,  and,  with  a  couple  of  dexterous  turns 
of  the  wrist,  pegged  the  bird  on  its  back  with 
outstretched  wings.  As  was  only  natural,  the 
crow  began  to  shriek  at  once  and  beat  the  air 
with  its  claws.  In  a  few  seconds  the  clamor  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  bevy  of  wild  crows 
on  a  shoal  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  where 
they  were  discussing  something  that  looked  like 
a  corpse.  Half  a  dozen  crows  flew  over  at  once 
to  see  what  was  going  on,  and  also,  as  it  proved, 
to  attack  the  pinioned  bird.  Gunga  Dass,  who 
had  lain  down  on  a  tussock,  motioned  to  me 
to  be  quiet,  though  I  fancy  this  was  a  need- 
less precaution.  In  a  moment,  and  before  I 
could  see  how  it  happened,  a  wild  crow,  who 
had  grappled  with  the  shrieking  and  helpless 
bird,  was  entangled  in  the  latter's  claws,  swiftly 
disengaged  by  Gunga  Dass,  and  pegged  down 
beside  its  companion  in  adversity.     Curiosity,  it 


538  Indian  Tales 

seemed,  overpowered  me  rest  of  the  flock,  and 
almost  before  Gunga  Dass  and  I  had  time  to 
withdraw  to  the  tussock,  two  more  captives 
were  struggling  in  the  upturned  claws  of  the 
decoys.  So  the  chase — if  I  can  give  it  so  digni- 
fied a  name — continued  until  Gunga  Dass  had 
captured  seven  crows.  Five  of  them  he  throttled 
at  once,  reserving  two  for  further  operations  an- 
other day.  I  was  a  good  deal  impressed  by  this, 
to  me,  novel  method  of  securing  food,  and  com- 
plimented Gunga  Dass  on  his  skill. 

"It  is  nothing  to  do,"  said  he.  "To-morrow 
you  must  do  it  for  me.  You  are  stronger  than  I 
am." 

This  calm  assumption  of  superiority  upset  me 
not  a  little,  and  I  answered  peremptorily; — "  In- 
deed, you  old  ruffian!  What  do  you  think  I 
have  given  you  money  for  ?" 

"Very  well,"  was  the  unmoved  reply.  "  Per- 
haps not  to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  nor 
subsequently;  but  in  the  end,  and  for  many 
years,  you  will  catch  crows  and  eat  crows,  and 
you  will  thank  your  European  God  that  you  have 
crov/s  to  catch  and  eat." 

I  could  have  cheerfully  strangled  him  for  this; 
but  judged  it  best  under  the  circumstances  to 
smother  my  resentment.  An  hour  later  I  was 
eating  one  of  the  crows;  and,  as  Gunga  Dass 
had  said,  thanking  my  God  that  I  had  a  crow  to 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  5  39 

eat.  Never  as  long  as  I  live  shall  I  forget  that 
evening  meal.  The  whole  population  were 
squatting  on  the  hard  sand  platform  opposite 
their  dens,  huddled  over  tiny  fires  of  refuse  and 
dried  rushes.  Death,  having  once  laid  his  hand 
upon  these  men  and  forborne  to  strike,  seemed 
to  stand  aloof  from  them  now;  for  most  of  our 
company  were  old  men,  bent  and  worn  and 
twisted  with  years,  and  women  aged  to  all  ap- 
pearance as  the  Fates  themselves.  They  sat  to- 
gether in  knots  and  talked — God  only  knows 
what  they  found  to  discuss — in  low  equable 
tones,  curiously  in  contrast  to  the  strident  babble 
with  which  natives  are  accustomed  to  make  day 
hideous.  Now  and  then  an  access  of  that  sudden 
fury  which  had  possessed  me  in  the  morning 
would  lay  hold  on  a  man  or  woman;  and  with 
yells  and  imprecations  the  sufferer  would  attack 
the  steep  slope  until,  baffled  and  bleeding,  he  fell 
back  on  the  platform  incapable  of  moving  a 
limb.  The  others  would  never  even  raise  their 
eyes  when  this  happened,  as  men  too  well  aware 
of  the  futility  of  their  fellows'  attempts  and 
wearied  with  their  useless  repetition.  1  saw  four 
such  outbursts  in  the  course  of  that  evening. 

Gunga  Dass  took  an  eminently  business-like 
view  of  my  situation,  and  while  we  were  dining 
—I  can  afford  to  laugh  at  the  recollection  now, 
but  it  was   painful   enough  at  the  time — pro- 


540  Indian    Tales 

pounded  the  terms  on  which  he  would  consent 
to  "do"  for  me.  My  nine  rupees  eight  annas, 
he  argued,  at  the  rate  of  three  annas  a  day,  would 
provide  me  with  food  for  fifty-one  days,  or  about 
seven  weeks;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  be  willing 
to  cater  for  me  for  that  length  of  time.  At  the 
end  of  it  I  was  to  look  after  myself.  For  a  fur- 
ther consideration — videlicet  my  boots — he  would 
be  willing  to  allow  me  to  occupy  the  den  next 
to  his  own,  and  would  supply  me  with  as  much 
dried  grass  for  bedding  as  he  could  spare. 

"  Very  well,  Gunga  Dass,"  1  replied;  "to  the 
first  terms  1  cheerfully  agree,  but,  as  there  is 
nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  my  killing  you  as  you 
sit  here  and  taking  everything  that  you  have"  (I 
thought  of  the  two  invaluable  crows  at  the  time), 
"1  fiatly  refuse  to  give  you  my  boots  and  shall 
take  whichever  den  I  please." 

The  stroke  was  a  bold  one,  and  I  was  glad 
when  I  saw  that  it  had  succeeded.  Gunga  Dass 
changed  his  tone  immediately,  and  disavowed 
all  intention  of  asking  for  my  boots.  At  the 
time  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all  strange  that  I,  a 
Civil  Engineer,  a  man  of  thirteen  years'  standing 
in  the  Service,  and,  I  trust,  an  average  English- 
man, should  thus  calmly  threaten  murder  and 
violence  against  the  man  who  had,  for  a  con- 
sideration it  is  true,  taken  me  under  his  wing.  I 
had  left  the  world,  it  seemed,  for  centuries.     I 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  54: 

was  as  certain  then  as  I  am  now  of  my  own  ex- 
istence, that  in  the  accursed  settlement  there  was 
no  law  save  that  of  the  strongest;  that  the  living 
dead  men  had  thrown  behind  them  every  canon 
of  the  world  which  had  cast  them  out;  and  that 
I  had  to  depend  for  my  own  life  on  my  strength 
and  vigilance  alone.  The  crew  of  the  ill-fated 
Mignonette  are  the  only  men  who  would  under- 
stand my  frame  of  mind.  "At  present,"  1 
argued  to  myself,  "  I  am  strong  and  a  match  for 
six  of  these  wretches.  It  is  imperatively  neces- 
sary that  1  should,  for  my  own  sake,  keep  both 
health  and  strength  until  the  hour  of  my  release 
comes — if  it  ever  does." 

Fortified  with  these  resolutions,  I  ate  and  drank 
as  much  as  1  could,  and  made  Gunga  Dass  under- 
stand that  I  intended  to  be  his  master,  and  that 
the  least  sign  of  insubordination  on  his  part 
would  be  visited  with  the  only  punishment  1  had 
it  in  my  power  to  inflict — sudden  and  violent 
death.  Shortly  after  this  I  went  to  bed.  That  is 
to  say,  Gunga  Dass  gave  me  a  double  armful  of 
dried  bents  which  I  thrust  down  the  mouth  of 
the  lair  to  the  right  of  his,  and  followed  myself, 
feet  foremost;  the  hole  running  about  nine  feet 
into  the  sand  with  a  slight  downward  inclination, 
and  being  neatly  shored  with  timbers.  From  my 
den,  which  faced  the  river-front,  I  was  able  to 
watch  the  waters  of  the  Sutlej  flowing  past  under 


542  Indian  Tales 

the  light  of  a  young  moon  and  compose  myself 
to  sleep  as  best  1  might. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  I  shall  never  forget. 
My  den  was  nearly  as  narrow  as  a  coffm,  and  the 
sides  had  been  worn  smooth  and  greasy  by  the 
contact  of  innumerable  naked  bodies,  added  to 
which  it  smelled  abominably.  Sleep  was  alto- 
gether out  of  question  to  one  in  my  excited  frame 
of  mind.  As  the  night  wore  on,  it  seemed  that 
the  entire  amphitheatre  was  filled  with  legions  of 
unclean  devils  that,  trooping  up  from  the  shoals 
below,  mocked  the  unfortunates  in  their  lairs. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  tempera- 
ment,— very  few  Engineers  are, — but  on  that 
occasion  I  was  as  completely  prostrated  with 
nervous  terror  as  any  y/oman.  After  half  an 
hour  or  so,  however,  I  was  able  once  more  to 
calmly  review  my  chances  of  escape.  Any  exit 
by  the  steep  sand  walls  was,  of  course,  impracti- 
cable. 1  had  been  thoroughly  convinced  of  this 
some  time  before.  It  was  possible,  just  possible, 
that  I  might,  in  the  uncertain  moonlight,  safely 
run  the  gauntlet  of  the  rifle  shots.  The  place 
was  so  full  of  terror  for  me  that  I  was  prepared 
to  undergo  any  risk  in  leaving  it.  Imagine  my 
delight,  then,  when  after  creeping  stealthily  to 
the  river-front  I  found  that  the  infernal  boat  was 
not  there.  My  freedom  lay  before  me  in  the 
next  few  steps! 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrow bte  Jukes  543 

By  walking  out  to  the  first  shallow  pool  that 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  projecting  left  horn  of  the 
horseshoe,  I  could  wade  across,  turn  the  flank  of 
the  crater,  and  make  my  way  inland.  Without 
a  moment's  hesitation  I  marched  briskly  past  the 
tussocks  where  Gunga  Dass  had  snared  the 
crows,  and  out  in  the  direction  of  the  smooth 
white  sand  beyond.  My  first  step  from  the  tufts 
of  dried  grass  showed  me  how  utterly  futile  was 
any  hope  of  escape;  for,  as  I  put  my  foot  down, 
I  felt  an  indescribable  drawing,  sucking  motion 
of  the  sand  below.  Another  moment  and  my 
leg  was  swallowed  up  nearly  to  the  knee.  In 
the  moonlight  the  whole  surface  of  the  sand 
seemed  to  be  shaken  with  devilish  delight  at 
my  disappointment.  1  struggled  clear,  sv/eating 
with  terror  and  exertion,  back  to  the  tussocks  be- 
hind me  and  fell  on  my  face. 

My  only  means  of  escape  from  the  semicircle 
was  protected  with  a  quicksand! 

How  long  I  lay  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea; 
but  I  was  roused  at  last  by  the  malevolent 
chuckle  of  Gunga  Dass  at  my  ear.  "I  would 
advise  you,  Protector  of  the  Poor"  (the  ruffian 
was  speaking  English)  "to  return  to  your  house. 
It  is  unhealthy  to  lie  down  here.  Moreover, 
when  the  boat  returns,  you  will  most  certainly 
be  rifled  at."  He  stood  over  me  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  dawn,  chuckling  and  laughing  to  himself 


544  Indian   Tales 

Suppressing  my  first  impulse  to  catclitiie  man  by 
the  neck  and  throw  him  on  to  the  quicksand,  1 
rose  sullenly  and  followed  him  to  the  platform 
below  the  burrows. 

Suddenly,  and  futilely  as  I  thought  while  I 
spoke,  1  asked: — "Gunga  Dass,  what  is  the  good 
of  the  boat  if  I  can't  get  out  anyhow  ?  "  I  recol- 
lect that  even  in  my  deepest  trouble  I  had  been 
speculating  vaguely  on  the  waste  of  ammunition 
in  guarding  an  already  well  protected  foreshore. 

Gunga  Dass  laughed  again  and  made  answer: 
— "They  have  the  boat  only  in  daytime.  It  is 
for  the  reason  that  there  is  a  way.  I  hope  we 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for 
much  longer  time.  It  is  a  pleasant  spot  when 
you  have  been  here  some  years  and  eaten  roast 
crow  long  enough." 

I  staggered,  numbed  and  helpless,  toward  the 
fetid  burrow  allotted  to  me,  and  fell  asleep.  An 
hour  or  so  later  I  was  awakened  by  a  piercing 
scream — the  shrill,  high-pitched  scream  of  a 
horse  in  pain.  Those  who  have  once  heard  that 
will  never  forget  the  sound.  I  found  some  lit- 
tle difficulty  in  scrambling  out  of  the  burrow. 
When  I  was  in  the  open,  I  saw  Pornic,  my  poor 
old  Pornic,  lying  dead  on  the  sandy  soil.  How 
they  had  killed  him  I  cannot  guess.  Gunga  Dass 
explained  that  horse  was  better  than  crow,  and 
"greatest  good  of  greatest  number  is  political 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  545 

maxim.  We  are  now  Republic,  Mister  Jukes, 
and  you  are  entitled  to  a  fair  share  of  the  beast. 
If  you  like,  we  will  pass  a  vote  of  thanks.  Shall 
I  propose?" 

Yes,  we  were  a  Republic  indeed!  A  Republic 
of  wild  beasts  penned  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit,  to 
eat  and  fight  and  sleep  till  we  died.  1  attempted 
no  protest  of  any  kind,  but  sat  down  and  stared 
at  the  hideous  sight  in  front  of  me.  In  less  time 
almost  than  it  takes  me  to  write  this,  Pornic's  body 
was  divided,  in  some  unclean  way  or  other;  the 
men  and  women  had  dragged  the  fragments  on 
to  the  platform  and  were  preparing  their  morning 
meal.  Gunga  Dass  cooked  mine.  The  almost 
irresistible  impulse  to  fly  at  the  sand  walls  until  I 
was  wearied  laid  hold  of  me  afresh,  and  I  had  to 
struggle  against  it  with  all  my  might.  Gunga 
Dass  was  offensively  jocular  till  I  told  him  that  if 
he  addressed  another  remark  of  any  kind  what- 
ever to  me  I  should  strangle  him  where  he  sat. 
This  silenced  him  till  silence  became  insupport- 
able, and  I  bade  him  say  something. 

"You  will  live  here  till  you  die  like  the  other 
Feringhi,"  he  said,  coolly,  watching  me  over  the 
fragment  of  gristle  that  he  was  gnawing. 

"What  other  Sahib,  you  swine?  Speak  at 
once,  and  don't  stop  to  tell  me  a  lie." 

"He  is  over  there,"  answered  Gunga  Dass, 
pointing  to  a  burrow-mouth  about  four  doors  to 


54^  Indian    Tales 

the  left  of  my  own.  "  You  can  see  for  yourself. 
He  died  in  the  burrow  as  you  will  die,  and  1  will 
die,  and  as  all  these  men  and  women  and  the  one 
child  will  also  die." 

"For  pity's  sake  tell  me  all  you  know  about 
him.  Who  was*  he  ?  When  did  he  come,  and 
when  did  he  die  }  " 

This  appeal  was  a  weak  step  on  my  part. 
Gunga  Dass  only  leered  and  replied: — "1  will 
not — unless  you  give  me  something  first." 

Then  1  recollected  where  I  was,  and  struck  the 
man  between  the  eyes,  partially  stunning  him. 
He  stepped  down  from  the  platform  at  once, 
and,  cringing  and  fawning  and  weeping  and  at- 
tempting to  embrace  my  feet,  led  me  round  to 
the  burrow  which  he  had  indicated. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  gentle- 
man. Your  God  be  my  witness  that  I  do  not. 
He  was  as  anxious  to  escape  as  you  were,  and 
he  was  shot  from  the  boat,  though  we  all  did  all 
things  to  prevent  him  from  attempting.  He  was 
shot  here."  Gunga  Dass  laid  his  hand  on  his  lean 
stomach  and  bowed  to  the  earth. 

"Well,  and  what  then  ?    Goon!" 

"And  then — and  then.  Your  Honor,  we  carried 
him  in  to  his  house  and  gave  him  water,  and  put 
wet  cloths  on  the  wound,  and  he  laid  down  in 
his  house  and  gave  up  the  ghost." 

"In  how  long?    In  how  long.?" 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  547 

"About  half  an  hour,  after  he  received  his 
wound.  I  call  Vishn  to  witness,"  yelled  the 
wretched  man,  "that  I  did  everything  for  him. 
Everything  which  was  possible,  that  I  did! " 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground  and 
clasped  my  ankles.  But  I  had  my  doubts  about 
Gunga  Dass's  benevolence,  and  kicked  him  off  as 
he  lay  protesting. 

"  I  believe  you  robbed  him  of  everything  he 
had.  But  I  can  find  out  in  a  minute  or  two. 
How  long  was  the  Sahib  here  }  " 

"Nearly  a  year  and  a  half.  I  think  he  must 
have  gone  mad.  But  hear  me  swear,  Protector 
of  the  Poor!  Won't  Your  Honor  hear  me  swear 
that  1  never  touched  an  article  that  belonged  to 
him  ?    What  is  Your  Worship  going  to  do  ?  " 

I  had  taken  Gunga  Dass  by  the  waist  and  had 
hauled  him  on  to  the  platform  opposite  the  de- 
serted burrow.  As  I  did  so  I  thought  of  my 
wretched  fellow-prisoner's  unspeakable  misery 
among  all  these  horrors  for  eighteen  months,  and 
the  final  agony  of  dying  like  a  rai  in  a  hole,  with 
a  bullet-wound  in  the  stomach.  Gunga  Dass 
fancied  I  was  going  to  kill  him  and  howled  piti- 
fully. The  rest  of  the  population,  in  the  plethora 
that  follows  a  full  flesh  meal,  v/atched  us  with- 
out stirring. 

"Go  inside,  Gunga  Dass,"  said  I,  "and  fetch 
it  out." 


548  Indian  Tales 

I  was  feeling  sick  and  faint  witii  horror  now. 
Gunga  Dass  nearly  rolled  off  the  platform  and 
howled  aloud. 

"But  I  am  Brahmin,  Sahib — a  high-caste  Brah- 
min, By  your  soul,  by  your  father's  soul,  do  not 
make  me  do  this  thing!  " 

"  Brahmin  or  no  Brahmin,  by  my  soul  and  my 
father's  soul,  in  you  go!"  I  said,  and,  seizing  him 
by  the  shoulders,  I  crammed  his  head  into  the 
mouth  of  the  burrow,  kicked  the  rest  of  him  in, 
and,  sitting  down,  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  rustle 
and  a  creak;  then  Gunga  Dass  in  a  sobbing, 
choking  whisper  speaking  to  himself;  then  a  soft 
thud — and  I  uncovered  my  eyes. 

The  dry  sand  had  turned  the  corpse  entrusted 
to  its  keeping  into  a  yellow-brown  mummy.  I 
told  Gunga  Dass  to  stand  off  while  I  examined  it. 
The  body — clad  in  an  olive-green  hunting-suit 
much  stained  and  worn,  with  leather  pads  on  the 
shoulders — was  that  of  a  man  between  thirty 
and  forty,  above  middle  height,  with  light,  sandy 
hair,  long  mustache,  and  a  rough  unkempt  beard. 
The  left  canine  of  the  upper  jaw  was  missing, 
and  a  portion  of  the  lobe  of  the  right  ear  was 
gone.  On  the  second  finger  of  the  left  hand  was 
a  ring — a  shield-shaped  bloodstone  set  in  gold, 
with  a  monogram  that  might  have  been  either 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jiihes  549 

"B.K."  or  "B.L."  On  the  third  finger  of  the 
right  hand  was  a  silver  ring  in  the  shape  of  a 
coiled  cobra,  much  worn  and  tarnished.  Gunga 
Dass  deposited  a  handful  of  trifles  he  had  picked 
out  of  the  burrow  at  my  feet,  and,  covering  the 
face  of  the  body  with  my  handkerchief,  1  turned 
to  examine  these.  I  give  the  full  list  in  the  hope 
that  it  may  lead  to  the  identification  of  the  un- 
fortunate man: 

1.  Bowl  of  a  briarwood  pipe,  serrated  at  the 
edge;  much  worn  and  blackened;  bound  with 
string  at  the  screw. 

2.  Two  patent-lever  keys;  wards  of  both 
broken. 

3.  Tortoise-shell-handled  penknife,  silver  or 
nickel,  name-plate,  marked  with  monogram 
"B.K." 

4.  Envelope,  postmark  undecipherable,  bear- 
ing a  Victorian  stamp,  addressed  to  "  Miss 
Mon — "  (rest  illegible) — "  ham  " — "  nt." 

5.  Imitation  crocodile-skin  notebook  with 
pencil.  First  forty-five  pages  blank;  four  and  a- 
half  illegible;  fifteen  others  filled  with  private 
memoranda  relating  chiefly  to  three  persons — a 
Mrs.  L.  Singleton,  abbreviated  several  times  to 
"Lot  Single,"  "Mrs.  S.  May,"  and  "Gar- 
mison,"  referred  to  in  places  as  "Jerry"  or 
"Jack." 

6.  Handle      of     small-sized     hunting-knife. 


550  Indian  Tales 

Blade  snapped  short.  Buck's  horn,  diamond 
cut,  with  swivel  and  ring  on  the  butt;  fragment 
of  cotton  cord  attached. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  inventoried  all 
these  things  on  the  spot  as  fully  as  I  have  here 
written  them  down.  The  notebook  first  at- 
tracted my  attention,  and  I  put  it  in  my  pocket 
with  a  view  to  studying  it  later  on.  The  rest  of 
the  articles  I  conveyed  to  my  burrow  for  safety's 
sake,  and  there,  being  a  methodical  man,  1  in- 
ventoried them.  I  then  returned  to  the  corpse 
and  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  help  me  to  carry  it 
out  to  the  river-front.  While  we  were  engaged 
in  this,  the  exploded  shell  of  an  old  brown 
cartridge  dropped  out  of  one  of  the  pockets  and 
rolled  at  my  feet.  Gunga  Dass  had  not  seen  itj 
and  I  fell  to  thinking  that  a  man  does  not  carry 
exploded  cartridge-cases,  especially  "browns,' 
which  will  not  bear  loading  twice,  about  with 
him  when  shooting.  In  other  words,  that 
cartridge-case  has  been  fired  inside  the  crater. 
Consequently  there  must  be  a  gun  somewhere. 
1  was  on  the  verge  of  asking  Gunga  Dass,  but 
checked  myself,  knowing  that  he  would  lie. 
We  laid  the  body  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand  by  the  tussocks.  It  was  my  intention 
to  push  it  out  and  let  it  be  swallowed  up — the 
only  possible  mode  of  burial  that  I  could  think  of. 
I  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  go  away. 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowhie  Jukes  5  5 1 

Then  I  gingerly  put  the  corpse  out  on  the 
quicksand.  In  doing  so,  it  was  lying  face  down- 
ward, I  tore  the  frail  and  rotten  khaki  shooting- 
coat  open,  disclosing  a  hideous  cavity  in  the 
back.  I  have  already  told  you  that  the  dry  sand 
had,  as  it  were,  mummified  the  body.  A  mo-' 
ment's  glance  showed  that  the  gaping  hole  had 
been  caused  by  a  gun-shot  wound;  the  gun  must 
have  been  fired  with  the  muzzle  almost  touching 
the  back.  The  shooting-coat,  being  intact,  had 
been  drawn  over  the  body  after  death,  which 
must  have  been  instantaneous.  The  secret  of 
the  poor  wretch's  death  was  plain  to  me  in  a 
flash.  Some  one  of  the  crater,  presumably 
Gunga  Dass,  must  have  shot  him  with  his  own 
gun — the  gun  that  fitted  the  brown  cartridges. 
He  had  never  attempted  to  escape  in  the  face  of 
the  rifle-fire  from  the  boat. 

I  pushed  the  corpse  out  hastily,  and  saw  it 
sink  from  sight  literally  in  a  few  seconds.  I 
shuddered  as  1  watched.  In  a  dazed,  half-con- 
scious way  I  turned  to  peruse  the  notebook.  A 
stained  and  discolored  slip  of  paper  had  been  in- 
serted between  the  binding  and  the  back,  and 
dropped  out  as  1  opened  the  pages.  This  is 
what  it  contained: — "Four  out  from  crow- 
clump:  three  left;  nine  out ;  two  right ;  three 
hack;  two  left;  fourteen  out;  two  left;  seven 
out;  one  left;  nine  back;  two  right ;  six  back; 


552  Indian  Tales 

four  right;  seven  back."  The  paper  had  been 
burned  and  charred  at  the  edges.  What  it  meant 
I  could  not  understand,  I  sat  down  on  the  dried 
bents  turning  it  over  and  over  between  my 
fingers,  until  I  was  aware  of  Gunga  Dass  stand- 
ing immediately  behind  me  with  glowing  eyes 
and  outstretched  hands. 

"Have  you  got  it.?"  he  panted.  "Will  you 
not  let  me  look  at  it  also  ?  I  swear  that  1  will 
return  it." 

"  Got  what  ?    Return  what  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  which  you  have  in  your  hands.  It  will 
help  us  both."  He  stretched  out  his  long,  bird- 
like talons,  trembling  with  eagerness. 

"I  could  never  find  it,"  he  continued.  "He 
had  secreted  it  about  his  person.  Therefore 
I  shot  him,  but  nevertheless  1  was  unable  to  ob- 
tain it." 

Gunga  Dass  had  quite  forgotten  his  little 
fiction  about  the  rifle-bullet.  I  received  the  in- 
formation perfectly  calmly.  Morality  is  blunted 
by  consorting  with  the  Dead  who  are  alive. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  raving  about  ?  What 
is  it  you  want  me  to  give  you  ?" 

"  The  piece  of  paper  in  the  notebook.  It 
will  help  us  both.  Oh,  you  fool!  You  fool! 
Can  you  not  see  what  it  will  do  for  us  ?  We 
shall  escape! " 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream,   and  he 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbte  Jukes  553 

danced  with   excitement  before   me.     I  own  1 
was  moved  at  the  chance  of  getting  away. 

"Don't  skip!  Explain  yourself.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  this  slip  of  paper  will  help  us  ?  What 
does  it  mean  ?" 

"Read  it  aloud!  Read  it  aloud!  1  beg  and  I 
pray  you  to  read  it  aloud." 

I  did  so.  Gunga  Dass  listened  delightedly, 
and  drew  an  irregular  line  in  the  sand  with  his 
fingers. 

"See  now!  It  was  the  length  of  his  gun- 
barrels  without  the  stock.  I  have  those  barrels. 
Four  gun-barrels  out  from  the  place  where  I 
caught  crows.  Straight  out;  do  you  follow  me .? 
Then  three  left —  Ah !  how  well  I  remember  when 
that  man  worked  it  out  night  after  night.  Then 
nine  out,  and  so  on.  Out  is  always  straight  be- 
fore you  across  the  quicksand.  He  told  me  so 
before  I  killed  him." 

t  *'  But  if  you  knew  all  this  why  didn't  you  get 
out  before.?" 

"I  did  not  know  it.  He  told  me  that  he  was 
working  it  out  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and  how  he 
was  working  it  out  night  after  night  when  the 
boat  had  gone  away,  and  he  could  get  out  near 
the  quicksand  safely.  Then  he  said  that  we 
would  get  away  together.  But  I  was  afraid  that 
he  would  leave  me  behind  one  night  when  he 
had  worked  it  all  out,  and  so  I  shot  him.     Be- 


554  Indian  Tales, 

sides,  it  is  not  advisable  tliat  tiie  men  wiio  once 
get  in  here  sliould  escape.  Only  I,  and  /  am  a 
Brahmin." 

The  prospect  of  escape  had  brought  Gunga 
Dass's  caste  back  to  him.  He  stood  up,  walked 
about  and  gesticulated  violently.  Eventually  I 
managed  to  make  him  talk  soberly,  and  he  told 
me  how  this  Englishman  had  spent  six  months 
night  after  night  in  exploring,  inch  by  inch,  the 
passage  across  the  quicksand;  how  he  had  de- 
clared it  to  be  simplicity  itself  up  to  within  about 
twenty  yards  of  the  river  bank  after  turning  the 
flank  of  the  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe.  This 
much  he  had  evidently  not  completed  when 
Gunga  Dass  shot  him  with  his  own  gun. 

In  my  frenzy  of  delight  at  the  possibilities  of 
escape  I  recollect  shaking  hands  effusively  with 
Gunga  Dass,  after  we  had  decided  that  we  were 
to  make  an  attempt  to  get  away  that  very  night. 
It  was  weary  work  waiting  throughout  the  after- 
noon. 

About  ten  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
when  the  Moon  had  just  risen  above  the  lip  of 
the  crater,  Gunga  Dass  made  a  move  for  his  bur- 
row to  bring  out  the  gun-barrels  whereby  to 
measure  our  path.  All  the  other  wretched  in- 
habitants had  retired  to  their  lairs  long  ago.  The 
guardian  boat  drifted  down-stream  some  hours 
before,  and  we  were  utterly  alone  by  the  crow- 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  555 

clump.  Gunga  Dass,  while  carrying  the  gun- 
barrels,  let  slip  the  piece  of  paper  which  was  to 
be  our  guide.  I  stooped  down  hastily  to  recover 
it,  and,  as  I  did  so,  I  was  aware  that  the  diaboli- 
cal Brahmin  was  aiming  a  violent  blow  at  the 
back  of  my  head  with  the  gun-barrels.  It  was 
too  late  to  turn  round.  1  must  have  received  the 
blow  somewhere  on  the  nape  of  my  neck.  A 
hundred  thousand  fiery  stars  danced  before  my 
eyes,  and  1  fell  forward  senseless  at  the  edge  of 
the  quicksand. 

When  1  recovered  consciousness,  the  Moon 
was  going  down,  and  I  was  sensible  of  intoler- 
able pain  in  the  back  of  my  head.  Gunga  Dass 
had  disappeared  and  my  mouth  was  full  of  blood. 
1  lay  down  again  and  prayed  that  I  might  die 
without  more  ado.  Then  the  unreasoning  fury 
which  I  have  before  mentioned  laid  hold  upon 
me,  and  1  staggered  inland  toward  the  walls  of 
the  crater.  It  seemed  that  some  one  was  calling 
to  me  in  a  whisper — "Sahib!  Sahib!  Sahib!" 
exactly  as  my  bearer  used  to  call  me  in  the  morn- 
ings. I  fancied  that  I  was  delirious  until  a  hand- 
ful of  sand  fell  at  my  feet.  Then  I  looked  up 
and  saw  a  head  peering  down  into  the  amphi- 
theatre— the  head  of  Dunnoo,  my  dog-boy,  who 
attended  to  my  collies.  As  soon  as  he  had  attracted 
my  attention,  he  held  up  his  hand  and  showed  a 
rope.     1    motioned,    staggering  to   and   fro  the 


5  5<5  Indian   Tales 

while,  that  he  should  throw  it  down.  It  was  a 
couple  of  leather  punkah-ropes  knotted  together, 
with  a  loop  at  one  end.  I  slipped  the  loop  over 
my  head  and  under  my  arms;  heard  Dunnoo 
urge  something  forward;  was  conscious  that  I 
was  being  dragged,  face  downward,  up  the  steep 
sand  slope,  and  the  next  instant  found  myself 
choked  and  half  fainting  on  the  sand  hills  over- 
looking the  crater.  Dunnoo,  with  his  face  ashy 
grey  in  the  moonlight,  implored  me  not  to  stay 
but  to  get  back  to  my  tent  at  once. 

It  seems  that  he  had  tracked  Pornic's  foot- 
prints fourteen  miles  across  the  sands  to  the 
crater;  had  returned  and  told  my  servants,  who 
flatly  refused  to  meddle  with  any  one,  white  or 
black,  once  fallen  into  the  hideous  Village  of  the 
Dead;  whereupon  Dunnoo  had  taken  one  of  my 
ponies  and  a  couple  of  pukah-ropes,  returned 
to  the  crater,  and  hauled  me  out  as  I  have  de- 
scribed. 

To  cut  a  long  story  short,  Dunnoo  is  now  my 
personal  servant  on  a  gold  mohur  a  month — a 
sum  which  I  still  think  far  too  little  for  the  serv- 
ices he  has  rendered.  Nothing  on  earth  will  in- 
duce me  to  go  near  that  devilish  spot  again,  or  to 
reveal  its  whereabouts  more  clearly  than  I  have 
done.  Of  Gunga  Dass  I  have  never  found  a 
trace,  nor  do  I  wish  to  do.  My  sole  motive  in 
giving  this  to  be  published  is  the  hope  that  some 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jtikes  557 

one  may  possibly  identify,  from  the  details  and 
the  inventory  which  I  have  given  above,  the 
corpse  of  the  man  in  the  olive-green  hunting- 
suit. 


IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO 

A  stone's  throw  out  on  either  hand 
From  that  well-ordered  road  we  tread, 

And  all  the  world  is  wild  and  strange : 
Churel  and  ghoul  and  Djinn  and  sprite 
Shall  bear  us  company  to-night, 
For  we  have  reached  the  Oldest  Land 

Wherein  the  Powers  of  Darkness  range. 

— From  the  Dusk  to  the  Dawn. 

THE  house  of  Suddhoo,  near  the  Taksali  Gate, 
is  two-storied,  with  four  carved  windows 
of  old  brown  wood,  and  a  flat  roof.  You  may 
recognize  it  by  five  red  hand-prints  arranged  like 
the  Five  of  Diamonds  on  the  whitewash  between 
the  upper  windows.  Bhagwan  Dass  the  grocer 
and  a  man  who  says  he  gets  his  living  by  seal- 
cutting  live  in  the  lower  story  with  a  troop  of 
wives,  servants,  friends,  and  retainers.  The  two 
upper  rooms  used  to  be  occupied  by  Janoo  and 
Azizun  and  a  little  black-and-tan  terrier  that  was 
stolen  from  an  Englishman's  house  and  given  to 
Janoo  by  a  soldier.  To-day,  only  Janoo  lives  in 
the  upper  rooms.  Suddhoo  sleeps  on  the  roof 
generally,  except  when  he  sleeps  in  the  street. 
He  used  to  go  to  Peshawar  in  the  cold  weather 
to  visit  his  son  who  sells  curiosities  near  the 
558 


In  the  House  of  Suddhoo  559 

Edwardes'  Gate,  and  then  he  slept  under  a  real 
mud  roof.  Suddhoo  is  a  great  friend  of  mine, 
because  his  cousin  had  a  son  who  secured,  thanks 
to  my  recommendation,  the  post  of  head-mes- 
senger to  a  big  firm  in  the  Station.  Suddhoo  says 
that  God  will  make  me  a  Lieutenant-Governor  one 
of  these  days.  I  dare  say  his  prophecy  will  come 
true.  He  is  very,  very  old,  with  white  hair  and 
no  teeth  worth  showing,  and  he  has  outlived  his 
wits — outlived  nearly  everything  except  his  fond- 
ness for  his  son  at  Peshawar.  Janoo  and  Azizun 
are  Kashmiris,  Ladies  of  the  City,  and  theirs  was 
an  ancient  and  more  or  less  honorable  profession; 
but  Azizun  has  since  married  a  medical  student 
from  the  Northwest  and  has  settled  down  to  a 
most  respectable  life  somewhere  near  Bareilly. 
Bhagwan  Dass  is  an  extortionate  and  an  adul- 
terator. He  is  very  rich.  The  man  who  is  sup- 
posed to  get  his  living  by  seal-cutting  pretends  to 
be  very  poor.  This  lets  you  know  as  much  as  is 
necessary  of  the  four  principal  tenants  in  the 
house  of  Suddhoo.  Then  there  is  Me  of  course; 
but  1  am  only  the  chorus  that  comes  in  at  the  end 
to  explain  things.     So  1  do  not  count. 

Suddhoo  was  not  clever.  The  man  who  pre- 
tended to  cut  seals  was  the  cleverest  of  them  all 
— Bhagwan  Dass  only  knew  how  to  lie — except 
Janoo.  She  was  also  beautiful,  but  that  was  her 
own  affair. 


56o  Indian  Tales 

Suddhoo's  son  at  Peshawar  was  attacked  by 
pleurisy,  and  old  Suddhoo  was  troubled.  The 
seal-cutter  man  heard  of  Suddhoo's  anxiety  and 
made  capital  out  of  it.  He  was  abreast  of  the 
times.  He  got  a  friend  in  Peshawar  to  telegraph 
daily  accounts  of  the  son's  health.  And  here  the 
story  begins. 

Suddhoo's  cousin's  son  told  me,  one  evening, 
that  Suddhoo  wanted  to  see  me;  that  he  was  too 
old  and  feeble  to  come  personally,  and  that  I 
should  be  conferring  an  everlasting  honor  on  the 
House  of  Suddhoo  if  I  went  to  him.  I  went; 
but  I  think,  seeing  how  well  off  Suddhoo  was 
then,  that  he  might  have  sent  something  better 
than  an  ekha,  which  jolted  fearfully,  to  haul  out 
a  future  Lieutenant-Governor  to  the  City  on  a 
muggy  April  evening.  The  ehka  did  not  run 
quickly.  It  was  full  dark  when  we  pulled  up 
opposite  the  door  of  Ranjit  Singh's  Tomb  near 
the  main  gate  of  the  Fort.  Here  was  Suddhoo, 
and  he  said  that,  by  reason  of  my  condescen- 
sion, it  was  absolutely  certain  that  I  should  be- 
come a  Lieutenant-Governor  while  my  hair  was 
yet  black.  Then  we  talked  about  the  weather 
and  the  state  of  my  health,  and  the  wheat  crops, 
for  fifteen  minutes  in  the  Huzuri  Bagh,  under 
the  stars. 

Suddhoo  came  to  the  point  at  last.  He  said 
that  Janoo  had  told  him  that  there  was  an  order 


In  the  House  of  Suddhoo  561 

of  the  Sirkar  against  magic,  because  it  was  feared 
that  magic  might  one  day  kill  the  Empress  of  In- 
dia. 1  didn't  know  anything  about  the  state  of  the 
law;  but  I  fancied  that  something  interesting  was 
going  to  happen.  I  said  that  so  far  from  magic 
being  discouraged  by  the  Government  it  was 
highly  commended.  The  greatest  officials  of  the 
State  practiced  it  themselves,  (if  the  Financial 
Statement  isn't  magic,  1  don't  know  what  is.) 
Then,  to  encourage  him  further,  I  said  that,  if 
there  was  any  Jad 00  afoot,  I  had  not  the  least  ob- 
jection to  giving  it  my  countenance  and  sanction, 
and  to  seeing  that  it  was  clean  jadoo — white 
magic,  as  distinguished  from  the  unclean  Jadoo 
which  kills  folk.  It  took  a  long  time  before 
Suddhoo  admitted  that  this  was  just  what  he  had 
asked  me  to  come  for.  Then  he  told  me,  in 
jerks  and  quavers,  that  the  man  who  said  he  cut 
seals  was  a  sorcerer  of  the  cleanest  kind;  that 
every  day  he  gave  Suddhoo  news  of  the  sick  son 
in  Peshawar  more  quickly  than  the  lightning 
could  fly,  and  that  this  news  was  always  cor- 
roborated by  the  letters.  Further,  that  he  had 
told  Suddhoo  how  a  great  danger  was  threaten- 
ing his  son,  which  could  be  removed  by  clean 
jadoo  ;  and,  of  course,  heavy  payment.  I  began 
to  see  exactly  how  the  land  lay,  and  told  Sud- 
dhoo that  1  also  understood  a  little  jadoo  in  the 
Western  line,  and  would  go  to  his  house  to  see 


562  Indian   Tales 

that  everything  was  done  decently  and  in  order. 
We  set  off  together;  and  on  the  way  Suddhoo 
told  me  that  he  had  paid  the  seal-cutter  between 
one  hundred  and  two  hundred  rupees  already; 
and  the  jadoo  of  that  night  would  cost  two  hun- 
dred more.  Which  was  cheap,  he  said,  con- 
sidering the  greatness  of  his  son's  danger;  but  1 
do  not  think  he  meant  it. 

The  lights  were  all  cloaked  in  the  front  of  the 
house  when  we  arrived.  1  could  hear  awful 
noises  from  behind  the  seal-cutter's  shop-front, 
as  if  some  one  were  groaning  his  soul  out.  Sud- 
dhoo shook  all  over,  and  while  we  groped  our 
way  upstairs  told  me  that  the  jadoo  had  begun. 
Janoo  and  Azizun  met  us  at  the  stair-head,  and 
told  us  that  the  jadoo-v^oxk  was  coming  off  in 
their  rooms,  because  there  was  more  space  there, 
Janoo  is  a  lady  of  a  freethinking  turn  of  mind. 
She  whispered  that  thQ  jadoo  was  an  invention  to 
get  money  out  of  Suddhoo,  and  that  the  seal- 
cutter  would  go  to  a  hot  place  when  he  died, 
Suddhoo  was  nearly  crying  with  fear  and  old  age. 
He  kept  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  the 
half-light,  repeating  his  son's  name  over  and  over 
again,  and  asking  Azizun  if  the  seal-cutter  ought 
not  to  make  a  reduction  in  the  case  of  his  own 
landlord.  Janoo  pulled  me  over  to  the  shadow 
in  the  recess  of  the  carved  bow-windows.  The 
boards  were  up,  and  the  rooms  were  only  lit  b^ 


In  the  House  of  SiuiJ/ioo  563 

one  tiny  oil-lamp.  There  was  no  chance  of  my 
being  seen  if  I  stayed  still. 

Presently,  the  groans  below  ceased,  and  we 
heard  steps  on  the  staircase.  That  was  the  seal- 
cutter.  He  stopped  outside  the  door  as  the  ter- 
rier barked  and  Azizun  fumbled  at  the  chain,  and 
he  told  Suddhoo  to  blow  out  the  lamp.  This 
left  the  place  in  jet  darkness,  except  for  the  red 
glow  from  the  two  hiiqas  that  belonged  to  Janoo 
and  Azizun.  The  seal-cutter  came  in,  and  I 
heard  Suddhoo  throw  himself  down  on  the  floor 
and  groan.  Azizun  caught  her  breath,  and  Janoo 
backed  on  to  one  of  the  beds  with  a  shudder. 
There  was  a  clink  of  something  metallic,  and 
then  shot  up  a  pale  blue-green  flame  near  the 
ground.  The  light  was  just  enough  to  show 
Azizun,  pressed  against  one  corner  of  the  room 
with  the  terrier  between  her  knees;  Janoo,  with 
her  hands  clasped,  leaning  forward  as  she  sat  on 
the  bed;  Suddhoo,  face  down,  quivering,  and 
the  seal-cutter. 

I  hope  I  may  never  see  another  man  like  that 
seal-cutter.  He  was  stripped  to  the  waist,  with 
a  wreath  of  white  jasmine  as  thick  as  my  wrist 
round  his  forehead,  a  salmon  colored  loin-cloth 
round  his  middle,  and  a  steel  bangle  on  each 
ankle.  This  was  not  awe-inspiring.  It  was  the 
face  of  the  man  that  turned  me  cold.  It  was 
blue-grey  in  the  first  place.     In  the  second,  the 


564  Indian  Tales 

eyes  were  rolled  back  till  you  could  only  see  the 
whites  of  them;  and,  in  the  third,  the  face  was 
the  face  of  a  demon — a  ghoul — anything  you 
please  except  of  the  sleek,  oily  old  ruffian  who 
sat  in  the  daytime  over  his  turning-lathe  down- 
stairs. He  was  lying  on  his  stomach  with  his 
arms  turned  and  crossed  behind  him,  as  if  he  had 
been  thrown  down  pinioned.  His  head  and 
neck  were  the  only  parts  of  him  off  the  floor. 
They  were  nearly  at  right  angles  to  the  body, 
like  the  head  of  a  cobra  at  spring.  It  was 
ghastly,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  on  the  bare 
earth  floor,  stood  a  big,  deep,  brass  basin,  with  a 
pale  blue-green  light  floating  in  the  centre  like  a 
night-light.  Round  that  basin  the  man  on  the 
floor  wriggled  himself  three  times.  How  he  did 
it  I  do  not  know.  I  could  see  the  muscles  ripple 
along  his  spine  and  fall  smooth  again;  but  I 
could  not  see  any  other  motion.  The  head 
seemed  the  only  thing  alive  about  him,  except 
that  slow  curl  and  uncurl  of  the  laboring  back- 
muscles.  Janoo  from  the  bed  was  breathing 
seventy  to  the  minute;  Azizun  held  her  hands 
before  her  eyes;  and  old  Suddhoo,  fingering  at 
the  dirt  that  had  got  into  his  white  beard,  was 
crying  to  himself.  The  horror  of  it  was  that  the 
creeping,  crawly  thing  made  no  sound — onlv 
crawled!  And,  remember,  this  lasted  for  tei. 
minutes,  while   the  terrier  whined,  and  Azizun 


In  the  House  of  Siiddhoo  565 

shuddered,    and    Janoo    gasped,    and    Suddhoo 
cried. 

!  felt  the  hair  lift  at  the  back  of  my  head,  and 
my  heart  thump  like  a  thermantidote  paddle. 
Luckily,  the  seal-cutter  betrayed  himself  by  his 
most  impressive  trick  and  made  me  calm  again. 
After  he  had  finished  that  unspeakable  triple 
crawl,  he  stretched  his  head  away  from  the  floor 
as  high  as  he  could,  and  sent  out  a  jet  of  fire 
from  his  nostrils.  Now  1  knew  how  fire-spout- 
ing is  done — I  can  do  it  myself — so  I  felt  at  ease. 
The  business  was  a  fraud.  If  he  had  only  kept 
to  that  crawl  without  trying  to  raise  the  effect, 
goodness  knows  what  1  might  not  have  thought. 
Both  the  girls  shrieked  at  the  jet  of  fire  and  the 
head  dropped,  chin-down  on  the  floor,  with  a 
thud;  the  whole  body  lying  then  like  a  corpse 
with  its  arms  trussed.  There  was  a  pause  of  five 
full  minutes  after  this,  and  the  blue-green  flame 
died  down.  Janoo  stooped  to  settle  one  of  her 
anklets,  while  Azizun  turned  her  face  to  the  wall 
and  took  the  terrier  in  her  arms.  Suddhoo  put 
out  an  arm  mechanically  to  Janoo's  hnqa,  and  she 
slid  it  across  the  floor  with  her  foot.  Directly 
above  the  body  and  on  the  wall,  were  a  couple  of 
flaming  portraits,  in  stamped-paper  frames,  of  the 
Queen  and  the  Prince  of  Wales.  They  looked 
down  on  the  performance,  and  to  my  thinking, 
seemed  to  heighten  the  grotesqueness  of  it  all. 


566  Indian  Tales 

Just  when  the  silence  was  getting  unendurable, 
the  body  turned  over  and  rolled  away  from  the 
basin  to  the  side  of  the  room,  where  it  lay  stom- 
ach-up. There  was  a  faint  "plop"  from  the 
basin — exactly  like  the  noise  a  fish  makes  when 
it  takes  a  fly — and  the  green  light  in  the  centre 
revived. 

I  looked  at  the  basin,  and  saw,  bobbing  in  the 
water,  the  dried,  shrivelled,  black  head  of  a  na- 
tive baby — open  eyes,  open  mouth,  and  shaved 
scalp.  It  was  worse,  being  so  very  sudden,  than 
the  crawling  exhibition.  We  had  no  time  to  say 
anything  before  it  began  to  speak. 

Read  Poe's  account  of  the  voice  that  came  from 
the  mesmerized  dying  man,  and  you  will  realize 
less  than  one  half  of  the  horror  of  that  head's 
voice. 

There  was  an  interval  of  a  second  or  two  be- 
tween each  word,  and  a  sort  of  "ring,  ring, 
ring,"  in  the  note  of  the  voice,  like  the  timbre  of 
a  bell.  It  pealed  slowly,  as  if  talking  to  itself, 
for  several  minutes  before  1  got  rid  of  my  cold 
sweat.  Then  the  blessed  solution  struck  me.  I 
looked  at  the  body  lying  near  the  doorway,  and 
saw,  just  where  the  hollow  of  the  throat  joins  on 
the  shoulders,  a  muscle  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  any  man's  regular  breathing  twitching  away 
steadily.  The  whole  thing  was  a  careful  repro- 
duction of  the  Egyptian  teraphin  that  one  reads 


In  the  House  of  Siuidhoo  567 

about  sometimes;  and  the  voice  was  as  clever 
and  as  appalling  a  piece  of  ventriloquism  as  one 
could  wish  to  hear.  All  this  time  the  head  was 
"  lip-Hp-lapping  "  against  the  side  of  the  basin, 
and  speaking.  It  told  Suddhoo,  on  his  face  again 
whining,  of  his  son's  illness  and  of  the  state  of 
the  illness  up  to  the  evening  of  that  very  night. 
I  always  shall  respect  the  seal-cutter  for  keeping 
so  faithfully  to  the  time  of  the  Peshawar  tele- 
grams. It  went  on  to  say  that  skilled  doctors 
were  night  and  day  watching  over  the  man's 
life;  and  that  he  would  eventually  recover  if  the 
fee  to  the  potent  sorcerer,  whose  servant  was  the 
head  in  the  basin,  were  doubled. 

Here  the  mistake  from  the  artistic  point  of 
view  came  in.  To  ask  for  twice  your  stipulated 
fee  in  a  voice  that  Lazarus  might  have  used  when 
he  rose  from  the  dead,  is  absurd.  Janoo,  who  is 
really  a  woman  of  masculine  intellect,  saw  this 
as  quickly  as  I  did.  I  heard  her  say  "  Asli 
nahin!  Fareib!"  scornfully  under  her  breath; 
and  just  as  she  said  so,  the  light  in  the  basin  died 
out,  the  head  stopped  talking,  and  we  heard  the 
room  door  creak  on  its  hinges.  Then  Janoo 
struck  a  match,  lit  the  lamp,  and  we  saw  that 
head,  basin,  and  seal-cutter  were  gone.  Sud- 
dhoo was  wringing  his  hands  and  explaining  to 
any  one  who  cared  to  listen,  that,  if  his  chances 
of  eternal  salvation  depended  on  it,  he  could  not 


568  Indian   Tales 

raise  another  two  hundred  rupees.  Azizun  was 
nearly  in  hysterics  in  the  corner;  while  Janoo  sat 
down  composedly  on  one  of  the  beds  to  discuss 
the  probabilities  of  the  whole  thing  being  a 
biuiao,  or  "make-up." 

I  explained  as  much  as  I  knew  of  the  seal-cut- 
ter's way  of  jadoo;  but  her  argument  was  much 
more  simple — "The  magic  that  is  always  de- 
manding gifts  is  no  true  magic,"  said  she.  "  My 
mother  told  me  that  the  only  potent  love-spells 
are  those  which  are  told  you  for  love.  This  seal- 
cutter  man  is  a  liar  and  a  devil.  I  dare  not  tell, 
do  anything,  or  get  anything  done,  because  I  am 
in  debt  to  Bhagwan  Dass  the  bunnia  for  two  gold 
rings  and  a  heavy  anklet.  I  must  get  my  food 
from  his  shop.  The  seal-cutter  is  the  friend  of 
Bhagwan  Dass,  and  he  would  poison  my  food. 
A  fool's  jadoo  has  been  going  on  for  ten  days, 
and  has  cost  Suddhoo  many  rupees  each  night. 
The  seal-cutter  used  black  hens  and  lemons  and 
mantras  before.  He  never  shov/ed  us  anything 
like  this  till  to-night.  Azizun  is  a  fool,  and  will 
be  a  pnrdahnashin  soon.  Suddhoo  has  lost  his 
strength  and  his  wits.  See  now!  I  had  hoped 
to  get  from  Suddhoo  many  rupees  while  he 
lived,  and  many  more  after  his  death ;  and  behold, 
he  is  spending  everything  on  that  offspring  of  a 
devil  and  a  she-ass,  the  seal-cutter!  " 

Here   I   said,  "  But  what  induced  Suddhoo  to 


In  the  House  of  Suddhoo  569 

drag  me  into  the  business  ?  Of  course  I  can 
speak  to  the  seal-cutter,  and  he  shall  refund. 
The  whole  thing  is  child's  talk — shame — and 
senseless." 

"Suddhoo  is  an  old  child,"  said  Janoo.  "He 
has  lived  on  the  roofs  these  seventy  years  and  is 
as  senseless  as  a  milch-goat.  He  brought  you 
here  to  assure  himself  that  he  v^as  not  breaking 
any  law  of  the  Sirkar,  whose  salt  he  ate  many 
years  ago.  He  worships  the  dust  off  the  feet  of 
the  seal-cutter,  and  that  cow-devourer  has  for- 
bidden him  to  go  and  see  his  son.  What  does 
Suddhoo  know  of  your  laws  or  the  lightning- 
post  }  I  have  to  watch  his  money  goirig  day  by 
day  to  that  lying  beast  below," 

Janoo  stamped  her  foot  on  the  floor  and  nearly 
cried  with  vexation;  while  Suddhoo  was  whim- 
pering under  a  blanket  in  the  corner,  and  Azizun 
was  trying  to  guide  the  pipe-stem  to  his  foolish 
old  mouth. 


Now,  the  case  stands  thus.  Unthinkingly,  I 
have  laid  myself  open  to  the  charge  of  aiding  and 
abetting  the  seal-cutter  in  obtaining  money  un- 
der false  pretences,  which  is  forbidden  by  Section 
420  of  the  Indian  Penal  Code.  I  am  helpless  in 
the  matter  for  these  reasons.  I  cannot  inform 
the  Police.     What  witnesses  would  support  my 


570  Indian  Tales 

statements  ?  Janoo  refuses  flatly,  and  Azizun  is 
a  veiled  woman  somewhere  near  Bareilly — lost 
in  this  big  India  of  ours.  I  dare  not  again  take 
the  law  into  my  own  hands,  and  speak  to  the 
seal-cutter;  for  certain  am  I  that,  not  only  would 
Suddhoo  disbelieve  me,  but  this  step  would  end 
in  the  poisoning  of  Janoo,  who  is  bound  hand 
and  foot  by  her  debt  to  the  biinnia.  Suddhoo  is 
an  old  dotard;  and  whenever  we  meet  mumbles 
my  idiotic  joke  that  the  Sirkar  rather  patronizes 
the  Black  Art  than  otherwise.  His  son  is  well 
now;  but  Suddhoo  is  completely  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  seal-cutter,  by  whose  advice  he 
regulates  the  affairs  of  his  life.  Janoo  watches 
daily  the  money  that  she  hoped  to  wheedle  out 
of  Suddhoo  taken  by  the  seal-cutter,  and  becomes 
daily  more  furious  and  sullen. 

She  will  never  tell,  because  she  dare  not;  but, 
unless  something  happens  to  prevent  her,  I  am 
afraid  that  the  seal-cutter  will  die  of  cholera — 
the  white  arsenic  kind — about  the  middle  of  May. 
And  thus  I  shall  be  privy  to  a  murder  in  the 
House  of  Suddhoo. 


BLACK  JACK 

To  the  wake  av  Tim  O'Hara 

Came  company, 
All  St.  Patrick's  Alley 

Was  there  to  see. 

Robert  Buchanan, 

AS  the  Three  Musketeers  share  their  silver,  to- 
bacco, and  liquor  together,  as  they  protect 
each  other  in  barracks  or  camp,  and  as  they  re- 
joice together  over  the  joy  of  one,  so  do  they 
divide  their  sorrows.  When  Ortheris's  irrepres- 
sible tongue  has  brought  him  into  cells  for  a 
season,  or  Learoyd  has  run  amok  through  his  kit 
and  accoutrements,  or  Mulvaney  has  indulged  in 
strong  waters,  and  under  their  influence  reproved 
his  Commanding  Officer,  you  can  see  the  trouble 
in  the  faces  of  the  untouched  two.  And  the  rest 
of  the  regiment  know  that  comment  or  jest  is 
unsafe.  Generally  the  three  avoid  Orderly  Room 
and  the  Corner  Shop  that  follows,  leaving  both 
to  the  young  bloods  who  have  not  sown  their 
wild  oats;  but  there  are  occasions  — 

For  instance,  Ortheris  was  sitting  on  the  draw- 
bridge of  the  main  gate  of  Fort  Amara,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  pipe,  bowl  down, 
571 


572  Indian  Tales 

in  his  mouth.  Learoyd  was  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  turf  of  the  glacis,  kicking  his  heels  in  the 
air,  and  I  came  *-ound  th'^  corn':"  and  asked  for 
Mulvaney. 

Ortheris  spat  into  the  ditch  and  shook  his  head. 
"No  good  seein'  'im  now,"  said  Ortheris;  '"e's  a 
bloomin'  camel.     Listen." 

1  heard  on  the  flags  of  the  veranda  opposite  to 
the  cells,  which  are  close  to  the  Guard-Room,  a 
measured  step  that  I  could  have  identified  in  the 
tramp  of  an  army.  There  were  twenty  paces 
crescendo,  a  pause,  and  then  twenty  dimmuendo. 

"That's  'im,"  said  Ortheris;  "my  Gawd,  that's 
'im!  All  for  a  bloomin'  button  you  could  see 
your  face  in  an'  a  bit  o'  lip  that  a  bloomin'  Hark- 
angel  would  'a'  guv  back." 

Mulvaney  was  doing  pack-drill — was  com- 
pelled, that  is  to  say,  to  walk  up  and  down  for 
certain  hours  in  full  marching  order,  with  rifle, 
bayonet,  ammunition,  knapsack,  and  overcoat. 
And  his  offence  was  being  dirty  on  parade!  I 
nearly  fell  into  the  Fort  Ditch  with  astonishment 
and  wrath,  for  Mulvaney  is  the  smartest  man 
that  ever  mounted  guard,  and  would  as  soon 
think  of  turning  out  uncleanly  as  of  dispensing 
with  his  trousers. 

"Who  was  the  Sergeant  that  checked  him  ? " 
I  asked. 

"Mullins,  o'  course,"'  said  Ortheris.     "There 


Black  Jack  573 

ain't  no  other  man  would  whip  'im  on  the  peg 
so.  But  Muliins  ain't  a  man.  'E's  a  dirty  little 
pigscraper,  that's  wot  'e  is." 

' '  What  did  Mulvaney  say  .?  He's  not  the  make 
of  man  to  take  that  quietly." 

"Said!  Bin  better  for  'im  if  'e'd  shut  'is 
mouth.  Lord,  'ow  we  laughed!  'Sargint,'  'e 
sez,  'ye  say  I'm  dirty.  Well,'  sez  'e,  'when 
your  wife  lets  you  blow  your  own  nose  for  your- 
self, perhaps  you'll  know  wot  dirt  is.  You're 
himperfectly  eddicated,  Sargint,'  sez  'e,  an'  then 
we  fell  in.  But  after  p'rade,  'e  was  up  an'  Mul- 
iins was  swearin'  'imself  black  in  the  face  at 
Ord'ly  Room  that  Mulvaney  'ad  called  'im  a 
swine  an'  Lord  knows  wot  all.  You  know  Mui- 
lins.  'E'll  'ave  'is  'ead  broke  in  one  o'  these  days. 
'E's  too  big  a  bloomin'  liar  for  ord'nary  consump- 
tion. '  Three  hours'  can  an'  kit,'  sez  the  Colonel; 
'  not  for  bein'  dirty  on  p'rade,  but  for  'avin'  said 
somthin'  to  Muliins,  tho'  I  do  not  believe,'  sez  'e, 
'you  said  wot  'e  said  you  said.'  An'  Mulvaney 
fell  away  sayin'  nothin'.  You  know  'e  never 
speaks  to  the  Colonel  for  fear  o'  gettin'  'imself 
fresh  copped." 

Muliins,  a  very  young  and  very  much  married 
Sergeant,  whose  manners  were  partly  the  result 
of  innate  depravity  and  partly  of  imperfectly  di- 
gested Board  School,  came  over  the  bridge,  and 
most  rudely  asked  Ortheris  what  he  was  doing. 


574  Indian   TaUs 

"Me?"  said  Ortheris.  "Ow!  Tm  waiting 
for  my  C'mission.     'Seed  it  comin'  along  yit  ? '" 

Mullins  turned  purple  and  passed  on.  There 
was  the  sound  of  a  gentle  chuckle  from  the  glacis 
where  Learoyd  lay. 

"'E  expects  to  get  'is  C'mission  some  day," 
explained  Orth'ris;  "Gawd  'elp  the  Mess  that 
'ave  to  put  their  'ands  into  the  same  kiddy  as 
'im!  Wot  time  d'you  make  it,  sir?  Power! 
Mulvaney'll  be  out  in  'arf  an  hour.  You  don't 
want  to  buy  a  dorg,  sir,  do  you  ?  A  pup  you 
can  trust — 'arf  Rampore  by  the  Colonel's  grey- 
'ound." 

"Ortheris,"  I  answered,  sternly,  for  I  knew 
what  was  in  his  mind,  "do  you  mean  to  say 
that  "— 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  arx  money  o'  you,  any'ow," 
said  Ortheris;  "I'd 'a'  sold  you  the  dorg  good 
an'  cheap,  but — but — I  know  Mulvaney'll  want 
somethin'  after  we've  walked  'im  orf,  an'  1  ain't 
got  nothin',  nor  'e  'asn't  neither.  I'd  sooner  sell 
you  the  dorg,  sir.     'S  trewth  I  would!" 

A  shadow  fell  on  the  drawbridge,  and  Orthe- 
ris began  to  rise  into  the  air,  lifted  by  a  huge 
hand  upon  his  collar. 

"Onything  but  t' braass,"  said  Learoyd,  qui- 
etly, as  he  held  the  Londoner  over  the  ditch. 
"Onything  but  t'  braass,  Orth'ris,  ma  son! 
Ah've  got  one  rupee  eight  annas  of  ma  own.'" 


Black  Jack  575 

He  showed  two  coins,  and  replaced  Ortheris  on 
the  drawbridge  rail. 

"Very  good,"  I  said;  "where  are  you  going 
to?" 

"  Goin'  to  walk  'im  orf  wen  'e  comes  out — 
two  miles  or  three  or  fower,"  said  Ortheris. 

The  footsteps  within  ceased.  I  heard  the  dull 
thud  of  a  knapsack  falling  on  a  bedstead,  fol- 
lowed by  the  rattle  of  arms.  Ten  minutes  later. 
Mulvaney,  faultlessly  dressed,  his  lips  tight  and 
his  face  as  black  as  a  thunderstorm,  stalked  into 
the  sunshine  on  the  drawbridge.  Learoyd  and 
Ortheris  sprang  from  my  side  and  closed  in  upon 
him,  both  leaning  toward  as  horses  lean  upon 
the  pole.  In  an  instant  they  had  disappeared 
down  the  sunken  road  to  the  cantonments,  and  I 
was  left  alone.  Mulvaney  had  not  seen  fit  to  rec- 
ognize me;  so  I  knew  that  his  trouble  must  be 
heavy  upon  him. 

I  climbed  one  of  the  bastions  and  watched  the 
figures  of  the  Three  Musketeers  grow  smaller  and 
smaller  across  the  plain.  They  were  walking  as 
fast  as  they  could  put  foot  to  the  ground,  and  their 
heads  were  bowed.  They  fetched  a  great  com- 
pass round  the  parade-ground,  skirted  the  Cav- 
alry lines,  and  vanished  in  the  belt  of  trees  that 
fringes  the  low  land  by  the  river. 

1  followed  slowly,  and  sighted  them — dusty, 
sweating,  but  still  keeping  up  their  long,  swing- 


5/6  Indian   Tales 

ing  tramp — on  the  river  bank.  They  crashed 
through  the  Forest  Reserve,  headed  toward  the 
Bridge  of  Boats,  and  presently  established  them- 
selves on  the  bow  of  one  of  the  pontoons.  I 
rode  cautiously  till  1  saw  three  puffs  of  white 
smoke  rise  and  die  out  in  the  clear  evening  air, 
and  knew  that  peace  had  come  again.  At  the 
bridge-head  they  waved  me  forward  with  ges- 
tures of  welcome. 

"Tie  up  your  'orse,"  shouted  Ortheris,  "an' 
come  on,  sir.  We're  all  goin'  'ome  in  this  'ere 
bloomin'  boat." 

From  the  bridge-head  to  the  Forest  Officer's 
bungalow  is  but  a  step.  The  mess-man  was 
there,  and  would  see  that  a  man  held  my  horse. 
Did  the  Sahib  require  aught  else — a  peg,  or  beer  ? 
Ritchie  Sahib  had  left  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  the 
latter,  but  since  the  Sahib  was  a  friend  of  Ritchie 
Sahib,  and  he,  the  mess-man,  was  a  poor  man  — 

I  gave  my  order  quietly,  and  returned  to  the 
bridge.  Mulvaney  had  taken  off  his  boots,  and 
was  dabbling  his  toes  in  the  water;  Learoyd  was 
lying  on  his  hack  on  the  pontoon;  and  Ortheris 
was  pretending  to  row  with  a  big  bamboo. 

"  I'm  an  ould  fool,"  said  Mulvaney,  reflectively, 
"  dhraggin'  you  two  out  here  bekaze  I  was  un- 
dher  the  Black  Dog — sulkin'  like  a  child.  Me 
that  was  soldierin'  when  Mullins,  an'  be  damned 
to  him,  was  shquealin'  on  a  counterpin  for  five 


Black  Jack  S77 

shillin'  a  week — an'  thai  not  paid!  Bhoys,  I've 
took  you  five  miles  out  av  natural  pervarsity. 
Phew !  " 

"Wots  the  odds  so  long  as  you're 'appy?" 
said  Ortheris,  applying  himself  afresh  to  the  bam- 
boo.    "  As  well  'ere  as  anywhere  else." 

Learoyd  held  up  a  rupee  and  an  eight-anna  bit, 
and  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "  Five  mile  from 
t'  Canteen,  all  along  o'  Mulvaney's  blaasted  pride." 

"1  know  ut,"  said  Mulvaney,  penitently. 
"  Why  will  ye  come  wid  me  ?  An'  yet  1  wud  be 
mortial  sorry  if  ye  did  not — any  time — though  I 
am  ould  enough  to  know  betther.  But  I  will  do 
penance.     I  will  take  a  dhrink  av  wather." 

Ortheris  squeaked  shrilly.  The  butler  of  the 
Forest  bungalow  was  standing  near  the  railings 
with  a  basket,  uncertain  how  to  clamber  down 
to  the  pontoon.  "  Might  'a'  know'd  you'd  "a'  got 
liquor  out  o'  bloomin'  desert,  sir,"  said  Ortheris, 
gracefully,  to  me.  Then  to  the  mess-man: 
"  Easy  with  them  there  bottles.  They're  worth 
their  weight  in  gold.  Jock,  ye  long-armed  beg- 
gar, get  out  o'  that  an'  hike  'em  down." 

Learoyd  had  the  basket  on  the  pontoon  in  an 
instant,  and  the  Three  Musketeers  gathered  round 
it  with  dry  lips.  They  drank  my  health  in  due 
and  ancient  form,  and  thereafter  tobacco  tasted 
sweeter  than  ever.  They  absorbed  all  the  beer, 
and  disposed  themselves  in  picturesque  attitudes 


5/8  Indian  Tales 

to  admire  the  setting  sun — no  man  speaking  for 
a  while. 

Mulvaney's  head  dropped  upon  his  chest,  and 
we  thought  that  he  was  asleep. 

"What  on  earth  did  you  come  so  far  for  ?  "  I 
whispered  to  Ortheris. 

"To  walk  'im  orf,  o'  course.  When  'e's  been 
checked  we  alius  walks  'im  orf.  'E  ain't  fit  to 
be  spoke  to  those  times — nor  'e  ain't  fit  to  leave 
alone  neither.     So  we  takes  'im  till  'e  is." 

Mulvaney  raised  his  head,  and  stared  straight 
into  the  sunset.  "I  had  my  rifle,"  said  he, 
dreamily,  "an'  1  had  my  bay'nit,  an'  Mullins 
came  round  the  corner,  an'  he  looked  in  my  face 
an'  grinned  dishpiteful.  '  You  can't  blow  your 
own  nose,'  sez  he.  Now,  I  cannot  tell  fwhat 
Mullins's  expayrience  may  ha'  been,  but,  Mother 
av  God,  he  was  nearer  to  his  death  that  minut' 
than  I  have  iver  been  to  mine — and  that's  less 
than  the  thicknuss  av  a  hair!  " 

"Yes,"  said  Ortheris,  calmly,  "you'd  look  fine 
with  all  your  buttons  took  orf,  an'  the  Band  in 
front  o'  you,  walkin'  roun'  slow  time.  We're 
both  front-rank  men,  me  an'  Jock,  when  the 
rig'ment's  in  'ollow  square.  Bloomin'  fine  you'd 
look.  '  The  Lord  giveth  an'  the  Lord  taketh 
awai, — Heasy  with  that  there  drop! — Blessed  be 
the  naime  o'  the  Lord,'"  he  gulped  in  a  quaint 
and  suggestive  fashion. 


Black  Jack  579 

"MuUins!  Wot's  Mullins?"  said  Learoyd, 
slowly.  "  Ah'd  take  a  coomp'ny  o'  Mullinses — 
ma  hand  behind  me.  Sitha,  Mulvaney,  don't  be 
a  fool." 

"  You  were  not  checked  for  fwhat  you  did  not 
do,  an'  made  a  mock  av  afther.  'Twas  for  less 
than  that  the  Tyrone  wud  ha'  sent  O'Harato  hell, 
instid  av  lettin'  him  go  by  his  own  choosin',  whin 
Rafferty  shot  him,"  retorted  Mulvaney. 

"And  who  stopped  the  Tyrone  from  doing 
it .?"  I  asked. 

"That  ould  fool  who's  sorry  he  didn't  stick  the 
pig  Mullins."  His  head  dropped  again.  When 
he  raised  it  he  shivered  and  put  his  hands  on  the 
shoulders  of  his  two  companions. 

"  Ye've  walked  the  Divil  out  av  me,  bhoys," 
said  he. 

Ortheris  shot  out  the  red-hot  dottel  of  his  pipe 
on  the  back  of  the  hairy  fist.  "They  say  'Ell's 
'otter  than  that,"  said  he,  as  Mulvaney  swore 
aloud.  "  You  be  warned  so.  Look  yonder!  "— 
he  pointed  across  the  river  to  a  ruined  temple— 
"  Me  an'  you  an'  Hm  " — he  indicated  me  by  a  jerk 
of  his  head — "was  there  one  day  when  Hi  made 
a  bloomin'  show  o'  myself.  You  an'  'im  stopped 
me  doin'  such — an'  Hi  was  on'y  wishful  for  to 
desert.  You  are  makin'  a  bigger  bloomin'  show 
o'  yourself  now." 

"Don't  mind  him,  Mulvaney,"  I  said;  "Dinah 


58o  Indian  Tales 

Shadd  won  t  let  you  hang  yourself  yet  awhile, 
and  you  don't  intend  to  try  it  either.  Let's  hear 
about  the  Tyrone  and  O'Hara.  Rafferty  shot  him 
for  fooling  with  his  wife.  What  happened  be- 
fore that?" 

"  There's  no  fool  like  an  ould  fool.  You  know 
you  can  do  anythin'  wid  me  whin  I'm  talkin'. 
Did  1  sa_y  I  wud  like  to  cut  Mullins's  hver  out  ? 
I  deny  the  imputashin,  for  fear  that  Orth'ris  here 
wud  report  me — Ah!  You  wud  tip  me  into  the 
river,  wud  you  ?  Sit  quiet,  little  man.  Any- 
ways, MuUins  is  not  worth  the  trouble  av  an 
extry  p'rade,  an'  I  will  trate  him  wid  outrajis 
contimpt.  The  Tyrone  an' O'Hara!  O'Hara  an' 
the  Tyrone,  begad!  Ould  days  are  hard  to  bring 
back  into  the  mouth,  but  they're  always  inside 
the  head." 

Followed  a  long  pause. 

**  O'Hara  was  a  Divil.  Though  I  saved  him, 
for  the  honor  av  the  rig'mint,  from  his  death  that 
time,  I  say  it  now.  He  was  a  Divil — a  long, 
bould,  black-haired  Divil." 

"  Which  way  ?  "  asked  Ortheris. 

"Women." 

"Then  I  know  another." 

"  Not  more  than  in  reason,  if  you  mane  me,  ye 
warped  walkin'-shtick.  I  have  been  young,  an' 
for  why  should  I  not  have  tuk  what  I  cud  ?  Did 
I  iver,  whin  I  was  Corp'ril,  use  the  rise  av  my 


Black  Jack  5S1 

rank— wan  step  an'  that  taken  away,  more's  the 
sorrow  an'  the  fault  av  me! — to  prosecute  a 
nefarious  inthrigue,  as  O'Hara  did?  Did  I,  whin 
I  was  Corp'ril,  lay  my  spite  upon  a  man  an'  make 
his  life  a  dog's  life  from  day  to  day  ?  Did  I  lie, 
as  O'Hara  lied,  till  the  young  wans  in  the  Tyrone 
turned  white  wid  the  fear  av  the  Judgment  av 
God  killin'  thim  all  in  a  lump,  as  ut  killed  the 
woman  at  Devizes?  1  did  not!  1  have  sinned 
my  sins  an'  I  have  made  my  confesshin,  an' 
Father  Victor  knows  the  worst  av  me.  O'Hara 
was  tuk,  before  he  cud  spake,  on  Rafferty's  door- 
step, an'  no  man  knows  the  worst  av  him.  But 
this  much  I  know! 

"  The  Tyrone  was  recruited  any  fashion  in  the 
ould  days.  A  draf  from  Connemara — a  draf 
from  Portsmouth — a  draf  from  Kerry,  an'  that 
was  a  blazin'  bad  draf — here,  there  and  ivery- 
where — but  the  large  av  thim  was  Oirish — Black 
Oirish.  Now  there  are  Oirish  an'  Oirish.  The 
good  are  good  as  the  best,  but  the  bad  arewurrst 
than  the  wurrst.  'Tis  this  way.  They  clog 
together  in  pieces  as  fast  as  thieves,  an'  no  wan 
knows  fwhat  they  will  do  till  wan  turns  informer 
an'  the  gang  is  bruk.  But  ut  begins  again,  a  day 
later,  meetin'  in  holes  an'  corners  an'  swearin' 
bloody  oaths  an'  shtickin'  a  man  in  the  back  an' 
runnin'  away,  an'  thin  waitin'  for  the  blood- 
money  on   the  reward   papers — to  see  if    ut's 


5^2  Indian  Tales 

worth  enough.  Those  are  the  Black  Oirish,  an' 
'tis  they  that  bring  dishgrace  upon  the  name  av 
Oireland,  an'  thim  I  wud  kill — as  I  nearly  killed 
wan  wanst. 

"But  to  reshume.  My  room — 'twas  before  1 
was  married — was  wid  twelve  av  the  scum  av 
the  earth — the  pickin's  av  the  gutter — mane  men 
that  wud  neither  laugh  nor  talk  nor  yet  get 
dhrunk  as  a  man  shud.  They  thried  some  av 
their  dog's  thricks  on  me,  but  I  dhrew  a  line 
round  my  cot,  an'  the  man  that  thransgressed  ut 
wint  into  hospital  for  three  days  good. 

"O'Hara  had  put  his  spite  on  the  room — he 
was  my  Color  Sargint — an'  nothin'  cud  we  do  to 
plaze  him.  1  was  younger  than  I  am  now,  an'  I 
tuk  what  I  got  in  the  way  av  dressing  down  and 
punishmint-dhrill  wid  my  tongue  in  my  cheek. 
But  it  was  diff'rint  wid  the  others,  an'  why  I  can- 
not say,  excipt  that  some  men  are  borrun  mane 
an'  go  to  dhirty  murdher  where  a  fist  is  more 
than  enough.  Afther  a  whoile,  they  changed 
their  chune  to  me  an'  was  desp'rit  frien'ly — all 
twelve  av  thim  cursin'  O'Hara  in  chorus. 

"'Eyah,'  sez  I,  'O'Hara's  a  divil  an'  I'm  not 
for  denyin'  ut,  but  is  he  the  only  man  in  the 
wurruld  }  Let  him  go.  He'll  get  tired  av  lindin' 
our  kit  foul  an'  our  'coutrements  onproperly 
kep'.' 

"  '  We  will  not  let  him  go,'  sez  they. 


Black  Jack  583 

"'Thin  take  him,' sez  I,  'an'  a  dashed  poor 
yield  you  will  get  for  your  throuble/ 

"'Is  he  not  misconductin'  himself  wid  Slim- 
my's  wife  ? '  sez  another, 

"'She's  common  to  the  rig'mint,'  sez  I. 
'  Fwhat  has  made  ye  this  partic'lar  on  a  sud- 
dint  ? ' 

"  '  Has  he  not  put  his  spite  on  the  roomful  av 
us?  Can  we  do  anyth'n'  that  he  will  not  check 
us  for?'  sez  another. 

"  'That's  thrue,'  sez  I. 

"  'Will  ye  not  help  us  to  do  aught,'  sez  an- 
other— '  a  big  bould  man  like  you  ? ' 

"  '  1  will  break  his  head  upon  his  shoulthers  av 
he  puts  hand  on  me,'  sez  I.  '  I  will  give  him  the 
lie  av  he  says  that  I'm  dhirty,  an'  1  wud  not  mind 
duckin'  him  in  the  Artillery  troughs  if  ut  was  not 
that  I'm  thryin'  for  my  shtripes.' 

"  '  Is  that  all  ye  will  do  ?'  sez  another.  '  Have 
ye  no  more  spunk  than  that,  ye  blood-dhrawn 
calf?' 

"  '  Blood-dhrawn  1  may  be,'  sez  I,  gettin'  back 
to  my  cot  an'  makin'  my  line  round  ut;  'but  ye 
know  that  the  man  who  comes  acrost  this  mark 
will  be  more  blood-dhrawn  than  me.  No  man 
gives  me  the  name  in  my  mouth,'  I  sez.  'On- 
dersthand,  I  will  have  no  part  wid  you  in  any- 
thin'  ye  do,  nor  will  I  raise  my  fist  to  my  shu- 
perior.     Is  any  wan  comin"  on  ?'  sez  I. 


584  Indian  Tales 

"They  made  no  move,  tho'  I  gave  them  full 
time,  but  stud  growlin'  an'  snarlin'  together  at 
wan  ind  av  the  room.  I  tuk  up  my  cap  and 
wint  out  to  Canteen,  thinkin'  no  little  av  mesilf, 
and  there  I  grew  most  ondacintly  dhrunk  in  my 
legs.     My  head  was  all  reasonable. 

•' '  Houligan,'  1  sez  to  a  man  in  E  Comp'ny 
that  was  by  way  av  bein'  a  frind  av  mine;  '  I'm 
overtuk  from  the  belt  down.  Do  you  give  me 
the  touch  av  your  shoulther  to  presarve  my  for- 
mation an'  march  me  acrost  the  ground  into  the 
high  grass.  I'll  sleep  ut  off  there,'  sez  1;  an' 
Houligan — he's  dead  now,  but  good  he  was 
while  he  lasted — walked  wid  me,  givin'  me  the 
touch  whin  I  wint  wide,  ontil  we  came  to  the 
high  grass,  an',  my  faith,  the  sky  an'  the  earth 
was  fair  rowlin'  undher  me.  I  made  for  where 
the  grass  was  thickust,  an'  there  I  slep'  off  my 
liquor  wid  an  easy  conscience.  I  did  not  desire 
to  come  on  books  too  frequent;  my  characther 
havin'  been  shpotless  for  the  good  half  av  a  year. 

"Whin  I  roused,  the  dhrink  was  dyin'  out  in 
me,  an'  I  felt  as  though  a  she-cat  had  littered  in 
my  mouth.  I  had  not  learned  to  hould  my  liquor 
wid  comfort  in  thim  days.  'Tis  little  betther  I 
am  now.  'I  will  get  Houligan  to  pour  a  bucket 
over  my  head,'  thinks  I,  an'  I  wud  ha'  risen,  but 
I  heard  some  wan  say:  'Mulvaneycan  take  the 
blame  av  ut  for  the  backslidin'  hound  he  is.' 


Blackjack  585 

"'Oho!'  sez  I,  an'  my  head  rang  like  a 
guard-room  gong:  '  fwhat  is  the  blame  that  this 
young  man  must  take  to  oblige  Tim  Vulmea  ? ' 
For  'twas  Tim  Vulmea  that  shpoke. 

"  I  turned  on  my  belly  an'  crawled  through  the 
grass,  a  bit  at  a  time,  to  where  the  spache  came 
from.  There  was  the  twelve  av  my  room  sittin' 
down  in  a  little  patch,  the  dhry  grass  wavin' 
above  their  heads  an'  the  sin  av  black  murdher  in 
their  hearts.  I  put  the  stuff  aside  to  get  a  clear 
view. 

"  'Fwhat's  that?'  sez  wan  man,  jumpin'  up. 

"  '  A  dog,'  says  Vulmea.  *  You're  a  nice  hand 
to  this  job!  As  I  said,  Mulvaney  will  take  the 
blame — av  ut  comes  to  a  pinch.' 

"  ''Tis  harrd  to  swear  a  man's  life  away,'  sez 
a  young  wan. 

"  '  Thank  ye  for  that,'  thinks  I.  '  Now,  fwhat 
the  divil  are  you  paragins  conthrivin'  against  me  }' 

"*'Tis  as  easy  as  dhrinkin'  your  quart,'  sez 
Vulmea.  'At  seven  or  thereon,  O'Hara  will 
come  acrost  to  the  Married  Quarters,  goin'  to  call 
on  Slimmy's  wife,  the  swine!  Wan  av  us'll  pass 
the  wurrd  to  the  room  an'  we  shtart  the  divil  an' 
all  av  a  shine — laughin'  an'  crackin'  on  an' 
t'rowin'  our  boots  about.  Thin  O'Hara  will 
come  to  give  us  the  ordher  to  be  quiet,  the  more 
by  token  bekaze  the  room-lamp  will  be  knocked 
over  in   the   larkin'.     He   will  take  the  straight 


586  Indian  Tales 

road  to  the  ind  door  where  there's  the  lamp  in 
the  veranda,  an'  that'll  bring  him  clear  against 
the  light  as  he  shtands.  He  will  not  be  able  to 
look  into  the  dhark.  Wan  av  us  will  loose  off, 
an'  a  close  shot  ut  will  be,  an'  shame  to  the  man 
that  misses.  'Twill  be  Mulvaney's  rifle,  she  that 
that  is  at  the  head  av  the  rack — there's  no  mistakin' 
long-shtocked,  cross-eyed  bitch  even  in  the  dhark.' 

"The  thief  misnamed  my  ould  firin'-piece  out 
av  jealousy — I  was  pershuaded  av  that — an'  ut 
made  me  more  angry  than  all. 

"But  Vulmea  goes  on:  *  O'Hara  will  dhrop, 
an'  by  the  time  the  light's  lit  again,  there'll  be 
some  six  av  us  on  the  chest  av  Mulvaney,  cryin' 
murdher  an'  rape.  Mulvaney's  cot  is  near  the 
ind  door,  an'  the  shmokin'  rifle  will  be  lyin'  un- 
dher  him  whin  we've  knocked  him  over.  We 
knov/,  an'  all  the  rig'mint  knows,  that  Mulvaney 
has  given  O'Hara  more  lip  than  any  man  av  us. 
Will  there  be  any  doubt  at  the  Coort-martial  ? 
Wud  twelve  honust  sodger-bhoys  swear  away 
the  life  av  a  dear,  quiet,  swate-timpered  man 
such  as  is  Mulvaney — wid  his  line  av  pipe-clay 
roun'  his  cot,  threatenin'  us  wid  murdher  av  we 
overshtepped  ut,  as  we  can  truthful  testify?' 

"'Mary,  Mother  av  Mercy!'  thinks  1  to  me- 
silf;  'it  is  this  to  have  an  unruly  mimber  an' 
fistes  fit  to  use!    Oh  the  sneakin'  hounds! ' 

"  The  big  dhrops  ran  down  my  face,  for  I  was 


Black  Jack  587 

wake  wid  the  liquor  an'  had  not  the  full  av  my 
wits  about  me.  I  laid  shtill  an'  heard  thim 
workin'  themselves  up  to  swear  my  life  by  tellin' 
tales  av  ivry  time  I  had  put  my  mark  on  wan  or 
another;  an'  my  faith,  they  was  few  that  was 
not  so  dishtinguished.  'Twas  all  in  the  way  av 
fair  fight,  though,  for  niver  did  1  raise  my  hand 
excipt  whin  they  had  provoked  me  to  ut. 

"  ' 'Tis  all  well,'  sez  wan  av  thim,  'but  who's 
to  do  this  shootin'  ? ' 

'•'Fwhat  matther?'  sez  Vulmea.  'Tis  Mul- 
vaney  will  do  that — at  the  Coort-martial.' 

"  '  He  will  so,'  sez  the  man,  'but  whose  hand 
is  put  to  the  trigger — in  the  room  ? ' 

"  'Who'll  do  ut?'  sez  Vulmea,  lookin'  round, 
but  divil  a  man  answeared.  They  began  to  dish- 
pute  till  Kiss,  that  was  always  playin'  Shpoil 
Five,  sez:  'Thry  the  kyards!'  Wid  that  he 
opined  his  tunic  an'  tuk  out  the  greasy  palam- 
mers,  an'  they  all  fell  in  wid  the  notion. 

"'Deal  on!'  sez  Vulmea,  wid  a  big  rattlin' 
oath,  '  an'  the  Black  Curse  av  Shielygh  come  to 
the  man  that  will  not  do  his  duty  as  the  kyards 
say.     Amin!' 

"  '  Black  Jack  is  the  masther,'  sez  Kiss,  dealin'. 
Black  Jack,  sorr,  I  shud  expaytiate  to  you,  is  the 
Ace  av  Shpades  which  from  time  immimorial  has 
been  intimately  connect  wid  battle,  murdher  an' 
suddin  death. 


588  Indian  Tales 

"  Wanst  Kiss  dealt  an'  there  was  no  sign,  but 
the  men  was  whoite  wid  the  workin's  av  their 
sowls.  Twice  Kiss  dealt,  an'  there  was  a  grey 
shine  on  their  cheeks  like  the  mess  av  an  egg. 
Three  times  Kiss  dealt  an'  they  was  blue. 
'  Have  ye  not  lost  him  ?'  sez  Vulmea,  wipin'  the 
sweat  on  him;  'Let's  ha' done  quick! '  'Quick 
ut  is,'  sez  Kiss  t'rowin'  him  the  kyard;  an'  ut  fell 
face  up  on  his  knee — Black  Jack! 

"Thin  they  all  cackled  wid  laughin'.  'Duty 
thrippence,'  sez  wan  av  thim,  'an'  damned 
cheap  at  that  price!'  But  1  cud  see  they  all 
dhrew  a  little  away  from  Vulmea  an'  lef  him 
sittin'  playin'  wid  the  kyard.  Vulmea  sez  no 
word  for  a  whoile  but  licked  his  lips — cat-ways. 
Thin  he  threw  up  his  head  an'  made  the  men 
swear  by  ivry  oath  known  to  stand  by  him  not 
alone  in  the  room  but  at  the  Coort-martial  that 
was  to  set  on  me  !  He  tould  off  five  av  the  big- 
gest to  stretch  me  on  my  cot  whin  the  shot  was 
fired,  an'  another  man  he  tould  off  to  put  out  the 
light,  an'  yet  another  to  load  my  rifle.  He  wud 
not  do  that  himself;  an'  that  was  quare,  for 
'twas  but  a  little  thing  considerin'. 

"Thin  they  swore  over  again  that  they  wud 
not  bethray  wan  another,  an'  crep'  out  av  the 
grass  in  diff'rint  ways,  two  by  two.  A  mercy  ut 
was  that  they  did  not  come  on  me.  I  was  sick 
wid  fear  in  the  pit  av  my  stummick — sick,  sick, 


Black  Jack  589 

sick!  Afther  they  was  all  gone,  I  wint  back  to 
Canteen  an'  called  for  a  quart  to  put  a  thought  in 
me.  Vulmea  was  there,  dhrinkin'  heavy,  an' 
politeful  to  me  beyond  reason.  '  Fwhat  will  I  do 
— fwhat  will  I  do .? '  thinks  1  to  mesilf  whin  Vul- 
mea wint  away. 

"  Presintly  the  Arm'rer  Sargint  comes  in  stiffin' 
an'  crackin'  on,  not  pleased  wid  any  wan,  bekaze 
the  Martini  Henri  bein'  new  to  the  rig'mint  in 
those  days  we  used  to  play  the  mischief  wid  her 
arrangemints.  'Twas  a  long  time  before  1  cud 
get  out  av  the  way  av  thryin'  to  pull  back  the 
back-sight  an'  turnin'  her  over  afther  firin' — as  if 
she  was  a  Snider. 

"  '  Fwhat  tailor-men  do  they  give  me  to  work 
wid  ?'  sez  the  Arm'rer  Sargint.  '  Here's  Hogan, 
his  nose  flat  as  a  table,  laid  by  for  a  week,  an' 
ivry  Comp'ny  sendin"  their  arrums  in  knocked  to 
small  shivreens.' 

"  '  Fwhat's  wrong  wid  Hogan,  Sargint?'  sez  I. 

"  'Wrong! 'sez  the  Arm'rer  Sargint;  'I  showed 
him,  as  though  I  had  been  his  mother,  the  way 
av  shtrippin'  a  'Tini,  an'  he  shtrup  her  clane  an' 
easy.  I  tould  him  to  put  her  to  again  an'  fire  a 
blank  into  the  blow-pit  to  show  how  the  dirt 
hung  on  the  groovin'.  He  did  that,  but  he  did 
not  put  in  the  pin  av  the  fallin'-block,  an'  av 
coorse  whin  he  fired  he  was  strook  by  the  block 


590  Indian  Tales 

jumpin'  clear.  Well  for  him  'twas  but  a  blank — 
a  full  charge  wud  ha'  cut  his  oi  out.' 

"I  looked  a  thrifle  wiser  than  a  boiled  sheep's 
head.     '  How's  that,  Sargint  ? '  sez  I. 

"'This  way,  ye  blundherin'  man,  an'  don't 
you  be  doin'  ut,'  sez  he.  Wid  that  he  shows  me 
a  Waster  action — the  breech  av  her  all  cut  away 
to  show  the  inside — an'  so  plazed  he  was  to 
grumble  that  he  dimonstrated  fwhat  Hogan  had 
done  twice  over.  *  An'  that  comes  av  not 
knowin'  the  wepping  you're  purvided  wid,'  sez 
he. 

"'Thank  ye,  Sargint,' sez  I;  'I  will  come  to 
you  again  for  further  information.' 

"'Ye  will  not,' sez  he.  '  Kape  your  clanin'- 
rod  away  from  the  breech-pin  or  you  will  get 
into  throuble.' 

"I  wint  outside  an'  I  could  ha'  danced  wid  de- 
light for  the  grandeur  av  ut.  '  They  will  load  my 
rifle,  good  luck  to  thim,  whoile  I'm  away,'  thinks 
I,  and  back  I  wint  to  the  Canteen  to  give  them 
their  clear  chanst. 

"The  Canteen  was  fillin' wid  men  at  the  ind 
av  the  day.  I  made  feign  to  be  far  gone  in 
dhrink,  an',  wan  by  wan,  all  my  roomful  came  in 
wid  Vulmea.  I  wint  away,  walkin'  thick  an' 
heavy,  but  not  so  thick  an'  heavy  that  any  wan 
cud  ha'  tuk  me.  Sure  and  thrue,  there  was  a 
kyartridge  gone  from  my  pouch  an'  lyin'  snug  in 


Black  Jack  59i 

my  rifle.  I  was  hot  wid  rage  against  thim  all, 
an'  1  worried  the  bullet  out  wid  my  teeth  as  fast 
as  I  cud,  the  room  bein'  empty.  Then  I  tuk  my 
boot  an'  the  clanin'-rod  and  knocked  out  the  pin 
av  the  fallin'-block.  Oh,  'twas  music  when  that 
pin  rowled  on  the  flure!  1  put  ut  into  my  pouch 
an'  stuck  a  dab  av  dirt  on  the  holes  in  the  plate, 
puttin'  the  fallin'-block  back.  'That'll  do  your 
business,  Vulmea,'  sez  1,  lyin'  easy  on  the  cot. 
*  Come  an'  sit  on  my  chest  the  whole  room  av 
you,  an'  I  will  take  you  to  my  bosom  for  the  big- 
gest divils  that  iver  cheated  halter.'  1  would 
have  no  mercy  on  Vulmea.  His  oi  or  his  life — 
little  1  cared! 

"  At  dusk  they  came  back,  the  twelve  av  thim, 
an'  they  had  all  been  dhrinkin'.  1  was  shammin' 
sleep  on  the  cot.  Wan  man  wint  outside  in  the 
veranda.  Whin  he  whishtled  they  began  to  rage 
roun'  the  room  an'  carry  on  tremenjus.  But  I 
r.iver  want  to  hear  men  laugh  as  they  did — sky- 
larkin'  too!     'Twas  like  mad  jackals. 

"  '  Shtop  that  blasted  noise! '  sez  O'Hara  in  the 
dark,  an'  pop  goes  the  room  lamp.  1  cud  hear 
O'Hara  runnin'  up  an'  the  rattlin'  av  my  rifle  in 
the  rack  an'  the  men  breathin'  heavy  as  they  stud 
roun'  my  cot.  I  cud  see  O'Hara  in  the  light  av 
the  veranda  lamp,  an'  thin  I  heard  the  crack  av 
my  rifle.  She  cried  loud,  poor  darlint,  bein'  mis- 
handled.    Next  minut'  five  men  were  houldin' 


592  Indian  Tales 

me  down.  'Go  easy,'  I  sez;  'f what's  ut  all 
about  ? ' 

"Thin  Vulmea,  on  the  flure,  raised  a  howl  you 
cud  hear  from  wan  ind  av  cantonmints  to  the 
other,  'I'm  dead,  I'm  butchered,  I'm  blind!'  sez 
he.  'Saints  have  mercy  on  my  sinful  sowl! 
Sind  for  Father  Constant!  Oh  sind  for  Father 
Constant  an'  let  me  go  clean!'  By  that  I  knew 
he  was  not  so  dead  as  I  cud  ha'  wished. 

"O'Hara  picks  up  the  lamp  in  the  veranda  wid 
a  hand  as  stiddy  as  a  rest.  'Fwhat  damned 
dog's  thrick  is  this  av  yours?'  sez  he,  and  turns 
the  light  on  Tim  Vulmea  that  was  shwimmin'  in 
blood  from  top  to  toe.  The  fallin'-block  had 
sprung  free  behin'  a  full  charge  av  powther — 
^vod  care  \  tuk  to  bite  down  the  brass  afther 
takin'  out  the  bullet  that  there  might  be  some- 
thin*  to  give  ut  full  worth — an'  had  cut  Tim 
from  the  lip  to  the  corner  av  the  right  eye,  lavin' 
the  eyelid  in  tatthers,  an'  so  up  an'  along  by  the 
forehead  to  the  hair.  'Twas  more  av  a  rakin' 
plough,  if  you  will  ondherstand,  than  a  clean  cut; 
an'  niver  did  I  see  a  man  bleed  as  Vulmea  did. 
The  dhrink  an'  the  stew  that  he  was  in  pumped 
the  blood  strong.  The  minut'  the  men  sittin'  on 
my  chest  heard  O'Hara  spakin'  they  scatthered 
each  wan  to  his  cot,  an'  cried  out  very  politeful: 
'  Fwhat  is  ut,  Sargint } ' 

"'Fwhat    is   ut!'   sez    O'Hara,    shakin'   Tim. 


Black  Jack  ,593 

'Well  an'  good  do  you  know  fwhat  ut  is,  ye 
skulkin'  ditch-lurkin'  dogs!  Get  a  doolie,  an' 
take  this  whimperin'  scutt  away.  There  will 
be  more  heard  av  ut  than  any  av  you  will  care 
for.' 

"  Vulmea  sat  up  rockin'  his  head  in  his  hand 
an'  moanin'  for  Father  Constant. 

"  '  Be  done!'  sez  O'Hara,  dhraggin'  him  up  by 
the  hair.  '  You're  none  so  dead  that  you  cannot 
go  fifteen  years  for  thryin'  to  shoot  me.' 

"'1  did  not,'  sez  Vulmea;  'I  was  shootin' 
mesilf.' 

"  'That's  quare,'  sez  O'Hara,  '  for  the  front  av 
my  jackut  is  black  wid  your  powther.'  He  tuk 
up  the  rifle  that  was  still  warm  an'  began  to 
laugh.  'I'll  make  your  life  Hell  to  you,'  sez  he, 
•  for  attempted  murdher  an'  kapin'  your  rifle  on- 
properly.  You'll  be  hanged  first  an'  thin  put 
undher  stoppages  for  four  fifteen.  The  rifle's 
done  for,"  sez  he. 

"'Why,  'tis  my  rifle!'  sez  I,  comin'  up  to 
look;  'Vulmea,  ye  divil,  fwhat  were  you  doin' 
wid  her — answer  me  that?' 

"  *  Lave  me  alone,'  sez  Vulmea;  '  I'm  dyin'i ' 

"Til  wait  till  you're  betther,'  sez  I,  'an'  thin 
we  two  will  talk  ut  out  umbrageous.' 

"O'Hara  pitched  Tim  into  the  doolie,  none  too 
tinder,  but  all  the  bhoys  kep'  by  their  cots,  which 
was  not  the  sign  av  innocint  men.     I  was  huntin' 


594  Indian  Tales 

ivrywhere  for  my  fallin'-block,  but  not  findin'  ut 
at  all.     I  niver  found  ut. 

"  '  Now  fwhat  will  I  do  ?'  sez  O'Hara,  swing- 
ing the  veranda  light  in  his  hand  an'  lookin'  down 
the  room.  I  had  hate  and  contimpt  av  O'Hara 
an'  1  have  now,  dead  tho'  he  is,  but,  for  all  that, 
will  I  say  he  was  a  brave  man.  He  is  baskin'  in 
Purgathory  this  tide,  but  I  wish  he  cud  hear  that, 
whin  he  stud  lookin'  down  the  room  an'  the 
bhoys  shivered  before  the  oi  av  him,  I  knew  him 
for  a  brave  man  an'  I  liked  him  so. 

"  '  Fwhat  will  I  do  .^  '  sez  O'Hara  agin,  an'  we 
heard  the  voice  av  a  woman  low  an'  sof  in  the 
veranda.  'Twas  Slimmy's  wife,  come  over  at 
the  shot,  sittin'  on  wan  av  the  benches  an'  scarce 
able  to  walk. 

"'O  Denny! — Denny,  dear,'  sez  she,  'have 
they  kilt  you.^' 

"O'Hara  looked  down  the  room  again  an' 
showed  his  teeth  to  the  gum.  Then  he  spat  on 
the  flure. 

"  'You're  not  worth  ut,'  sez  he.  '  Light  that 
lamp,  ye  dogs,'  an'  wid  that  he  turned  away,  an' 
I  saw  him  walkin'  off  wid  Slimmy's  wife;  she 
thryin'  to  wipe  off  the  powther-black  on  the  front 
av  his  jackut  wid  her  handkerchief.  'A  brave  man 
you  are,'  thinks  I — 'a  brave  man  an' a  bad  woman.' 

"No  wan  said  a  word  for  a  time.  They  was 
all  ashamed,  past  spache. 


Black  Jack  595 

"  '  Fwhat  d'you  think  he  will  do  ? '  sez  wan  av 
thim  at  last.     '  He  knows  we're  all  in  ut.' 

"'Are  we  so?'  sez  1  from  my  cot.  'The 
man  that  sez  that  to  me  will  be  hurt.  I  do  not 
know,'  sez  I,  'fwhat  onderhand  divilmint  you 
have  conthrived,  but  by  what  I've  seen  1  know 
that  you  cannot  commit  murdher  wid  another 
man's  rifle — such  shakin'  cowards  you  are.  I'm 
goin'  to  slape,'  I  sez,  '  an'  you  can  blow  my  head 
off  whoile  1  lay.'  1  did  not  slape,  though,  for  a 
long  time.     Can  ye  wonder  ? 

"  Next  morn  the  news  was  through  all  the  rig'- 
mint,  an'  there  was  nothin'  that  the  men  did  not 
tell.  O'Hara  reports,  fair  an'  easy,  that  Vulmea 
was  come  to  grief  through  tamperin'  wid  his 
rifle  in  barricks,  all  for  to  show  the  mechanism. 
An'  by  my  sowl,  he  had  the  impart'nince  to  say 
that  he  was  on  the  sphot  at  the  time  an'  cud  cer- 
tify that  ut  was  an  accidint!  You  might  ha' 
knocked  my  roomful  down  wid  a  straw  whin 
they  heard  that.  'Twas  lucky  for  thim  that  the 
bhoys  were  always  thryin'  to  find  out  how  the 
new  rifle  was  made,  an'  a  lot  av  thim  had  come 
up  for  easin'  the  pull  by  shtickin'  bits  av  grass 
an'  such  in  the  part  av  the  lock  that  showed  near 
the  thrigger.  The  first  issues  of  the  'Tinis  was 
not  covered  in,  an'  I  mesilf  have  eased  the  pull 
av  mine  time  an'  agin.  A  light  pull  is  ten  points 
on  the  range  to  me. 


596  Indian   Tales 

"'I  will  not  have  this  foolishness!'  sez  the 
Colonel.  'I  will  twist  the  tail  off  Vulmea!'  sez 
he;  but  whin  he  saw  him,  all  tied  up  an'  groanin' 
in  hospital,  he  changed  his  will.  '  Make  him  an 
early  convalescint,'  sez  he  to  the  Doctor,  an' 
Vulmea  was  made  so  for  a  warnin'.  His  big 
bloody  bandages  an'  face  puckered  up  to  wan 
side  did  more  to  kape  the  bhoys  from  messin' 
wid  the  insides  av  their  rifles  than  any  punishmint. 

"O'Hara  gave  no  reason  for  fwhat  he'd  said, 
an'  all  my  roomful  were  too  glad  to  inquire,  tho' 
he  put  his  spite  upon  thim  more  wearin'  than  be- 
fore. Wan  day,  howiver,  he  tuk  me  apart  very 
polite,  for  he  cud  be  that  at  the  choosin'. 

"  '  You're  a  good  sodger,  tho'  you're  a  damned 
insolint  man,'  sez  he. 

"  '  Fair  words,  Sargint,'  sez  I,  '  or  I  may  be  in- 
solint again.' 

"  '  'Tis  not  like  you,'  sez  he,  'to  lave  your  rifle 
in  the  rack  widout  the  breech-pin,  for  widout  the 
breech-pin  she  was  whin  Vulmea  fired.  I  should 
ha'  found  the  break  av  ut  in  the  eyes  av  the 
holes,  else,'  he  sez. 

"'Sargint,'  sez  I,  'fwhat  wud  your  life  ha' 
been  worth  av  the  breech-pin  had  been  in  place, 
for,  on  my  sowl,  my  life  wud  be  worth  just  as 
much  to  me  av  I  tould  you  whether  ut  was  or 
was  not.  Be  thankful  the  bullet  was  not  there,' 
I  sez. 


Black  Jack  $97 

"  'That's  thrue,'  sez  he,  pulling  his  moustache; 
*  but  I  do  not  believe  that  you,  for  all  your  lip, 
was  in  that  business.' 

"  '  Sargint,'  sez  1,  '  I  cud  hammer  the  life  out 
av  a  man  in  ten  minuts  wid  my  fistes  if  that  man 
dishpleased  me;  for  1  am  a  good  sodger,  an'  I 
will  be  threated  as  such,  an'  whoile  my  tlstes  are 
my  own  they're  strong  enough  for  all  work  I 
have  to  do.  They  do  not  fly  back  toward  me!' 
sez  I,  lookin'  him  betune  the  eyes. 

"  '  You're  a  good  man,'  sez  he,  lookin'  me  be- 
tune the  eyes — an'  oh  he  was  a  gran'-built  man 
to  see! — 'you're  a  good  man,'  he  sez,  'an'  1  cud 
wish,  for  the  pure  frolic  av  ut,  that  I  was  not 
a  Sargint,  or  that  you  were  not  a  Privit;  an' 
you  will  think  me  no  coward  whin  1  say  this 
thing.' 

"  'I  do  not,'  sez  I.  'I  saw  you  whin  Vulmea 
mishandled  the  rifle.  But,  Sargint,'  1  sez,  'take 
the  wurrd  from  me  now,  spakin'  as  man  to  man 
,  wid  the  shtripes  off,  tho'  'tis  little  right  I  have  to 
talk,  me  being  fwhat  1  am  by  natur'.  This  time 
ye  tuk  no  harm,  an'  next  time  ye  may  not,  but, 
in  the  ind,  so  sure  as  Slimmy's  wife  came  into 
the  veranda,  so  sure  will  ye  take  harm — an'  bad 
harm.  Have  thought,  Sargint,'  sez  I.  'Is  ut 
worth  ut .? ' 

"  '  Ye're  a  bould  man,'  sez  he,  breathin'  harrd. 
*A  very  bould  man.     But  I  am  a  bould  man  tu. 


598  Indian   Tales 

Do  you  go  your  way,  Privit  Mulvaney,  an'  I  will 
go  mine.' 

"  We  had  no  further  spache  thin  or  afther,  but, 
wan  by  another,  he  drafted  the  twelve  av  my 
room  out  into  other  rooms  an'  got  thim  spread 
among  the  Comp'nies,  for  they  was  not  a  good 
breed  to  live  together,  an'  the  Comp'ny  orf'cers 
saw  ut.  They  wud  ha'  shot  me  in  the  night  av 
they  had  known  fwhat  I  knew;  but  that  they 
did  not. 

"An',  in  the  ind,  as  1  said,  O'Hara  met  his 
death  from  Rafferty  for  foolin'  wid  his  wife.  He 
wint  his  own  way  too  well — Eyah,  too  well! 
Shtraight  to  that  affair,  widout  turnin'  to  the 
right  or  to  the  lef,  he  wint,  an'  may  the  Lord 
have  mercy  on  his  sowl.     Amin!" 

"'Ear!  'Ear!"  said  Ortheris,  pointing  the 
moral  with  a  wave  of  his  pipe.  "  An'  this  is  'im 
'oo  would  be  a  bloomin'  Vulmea  all  for  the  sake 
of  Mullins  an'  a  bloomin'  button!  MuUins  never 
went  after  a  woman  in  his  life.  Mrs.  Mullins, 
she  saw  'im  one  day  " — 

"Ortheris,"  I  said,  hastily,  for  the  romances  of 
Private  Ortheris  are  all  too  daring  for  publication, 
"  look  at  the  sun.     It's  quarter  past  six!  " 

"O  Lord!  Three  quarters  of  an  hour  for  five 
an'  a  'arf  miles!  We'll  'ave  to  run  like  Jimmy 
O." 

The  Three  Musketeers   clambered   on   to  the 


Black  Jack  599 

bridge,  and  departed  hastily  in  the  direction  of 
the  cantonment  road.  When  I  overtook  them  I 
offered  them  two  stirrups  and  a  tail,  which  they 
accepted  enthusiastically.  Ortheris  held  the  tail, 
and  in  this  manner  we  trotted  steadily  through 
the  shadows  by  an  unfrequented  road. 

At  the  turn  into  the  cantonments  we  heard 
carriage  wheels.  It  was  the  Colonel's  barouche, 
and  in  it  sat  the  Colonel's  wife  and  daughter.  I 
caught  a  suppressed  chuckle,  and  my  beast 
sprang  forward  with  a  lighter  step. 

The  Three  Musketeers  had  vanished  into  th« 
night. 


THE  TAKING  OF  LUNGTUNGPEN 

So  we  loosed  a  bloomin'  volley, 
An'  we  made  the  beggars  cut, 
An'  when  our  pouch  was  emptied  out. 
We  used  the  blooinin'  butt, 
Ho !     My ! 

Don't  yer  come  anigh. 
When  Tommy  is  a  playin'  with  the  baynit  an'  the  butt. 
Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

MY  friend  Private  Muivaney  toid  me  this,  sit- 
ting on  the  parapet  of  the  road  to  Dagshai, 
when  we  were  hunting  butterflies  together.  He 
had  theories  about  the  Army,  and  colored  clay 
pipes  perfectly.  He  said  that  the  young  soldier 
is  the  best  to  work  with,  "on  account  av  the 
surpassing  innocinse  av  the  child." 

"Now,  listen!"  said  Muivaney,  throwing  him- 
self full  length  on  the  wall  in  the  sun,  "I'm  a 
born  scutt  av  the  barrick-room!  The  Army's 
mate  an'  dhrink  to  me,  bekaze  I'm  wan  av  the 
few  that  can't  quit  ut.  I've  put  in  sivinteen 
years,  an'  the  pipeclay's  in  the  marrow  av  me. 
Av  I  cud  have  kept  out  av  wan  big  dhrink  a 
month,  I  wud  have  been  a  Hon'ry  Lift'nint  by 
this  time — a  nuisince  to  my  betthers,  a  laughin'- 
shtock  to  my  equils,  an'  a  curse  to  meself.  Bein' 
600 


The  Taking  of  Lungtungpen  6oi 

fwhat  I  am,  I'm  Privit  Mulvaney,  wid  no  good- 
conduc'  pay  an'  a  devourin'  thirst.  Always 
barrin'  me  little  frind  Bobs  Bahadur,  1  know  as 
much  about  the  Army  as  most  men." 

1  said  something  here. 

"Wolseiey  be  shot!  Betune  you  an'  me  an* 
that  butterfly  net,  he's  a  ramblin',  incoherint  sort 
av  a  divil,  wid  wan  oi  on  the  Quane  an'  the 
Coort,  an'  the  other  on  his  blessed  silf — everlast- 
in"Iy  playing  Saysar  an'  Alexandrier  rowled  into 
a  lump.  Now  Bobs  is  a  sinsible  little  man.  Wid 
Bobs  an'  a  few  three-year-olds,  I'd  swape  any 
army  av  the  earth  into  a  towel,  an'  throw  it  away 
aftherward.  Faith,  I'm  not  jokin'!  'Tis  the 
bhoys — the  raw  bhoys — that  don't  know  fwhat 
a  bullut  manes,  an'  wudn't  care  av  they  did — 
that  dhu  the  work.  They're  crammed  wid  bull- 
mate  till  they  fairly  ramps  wid  good  livin' ;  and 
thin,  av  they  don't  fight,  they  blow  each  other's 
hids  off.  'Tis  the  trut'  I'm  tellin'  you.  They 
shud  be  kept  on  water  an'  rice  in  the  hot 
weather;  but  there'd  be  a  mut'ny  av  'twas  done. 

"Did  ye  iver  hear  how  Privit  Mulvaney  tuk 
the  town  av  Lungtungpen?  I  thought  not! 
'Twas  the  Lift'nint  got  the  credit;  but  'twas  me 
planned  the  schame.  A  little  before  I  was  in- 
viladed  from  Burma,  me  an'  four-an'-twenty 
young  wans  undher  a  Lift'nint  Brazenose,  was 
ruinin'  our  dijeshins  thryin'  to  catch  dacoits.    An' 


6o2  Indian  Tales 

such  double-ended  divils  I  niver  knew!  'Tis 
only  a  dah  an'  a  Snider  that  makes  a  dacoit. 
Widout  thim,  he's  a  paceful  cultivator,  an'  felony 
for  to  shoot.  We  hunted,  an'  we  hunted,  an' 
tuk  fever  an'  elephints  now  an'  again;  but  no 
dacoits.  Evenshually,  we  puckarowed  wan  man. 
'Trate  him  tinderly,'  sez  the  Lift'nint.  So  I  tuk 
him  away  into  the  jungle,  wid  the  Burmese  In- 
terprut'r  an'  my  clanin'-rod.  Sez  I  to  the  man, 
'My  paceful  squireen,'  sez  I,  'you  shquot  on 
your  hunkers  an'  dimonstrate  to  my  frind  here, 
where  >'OMr  f rinds  are  whin  they're  at  home.?' 
Wid  that  I  introjuced  him  to  the  clanin'-rod,  an' 
he  comminst  to  jabber;  the  Interprut'r  inter- 
prutin'  in  betweens,  an'  me  helpin'  the  Intilligince 
Departmint  wid  my  clanin'-rod  whin  the  man 
misremimbered. 

"  Prisintly,  I  learn  that,  acrost  the  river,  about 
nine  miles  away,  was  a  town  just  dhrippin'  wid 
dahs,  an'  bohs  an'  arrows,  an'  dacoits,  and  ele- 
phints, an'  jingles.  '  Good  I '  sez  1 ;  '  this  office 
will  now  close!' 

"That  night,  I  went  to  the  Lift'nint  an'  com^ 
municates  my  information.  1  never  thought 
much  of  Lift'nint  Brazenose  till  that  night.  He 
was  shtiflf  wid  books  an'  the-ouries,  an'  all  man- 
ner av  thrimmin's  no  manner  av  use.  'Town 
did  ye  say?'  sez  he.  '  Accordin'  to  the  the- 
ouries  av  War,  we  shud  wait  for  reinforcemints.' 


The   Taking  of  Ltingtiingpen  603 

— '  Faith!'  thinks  I,  '  we'd  betther  dig  our  graves 
thin;'  for  the  nearest  throops  was  up  to  their 
shtocks  in  the  marshes  out  Mimbu  way.  '  But,* 
says  the  Lift'nint,  '  since  'tis  a  speshil  case,  I'll 
make  an  excepshin.  We'll  visit  this  Lungtung- 
pen  to-night.' 

"The  bhoys  was  fairly  woild  wid  deloight 
whin  1  tould  'em;  an',  by  this  an'  that,  they  wint 
through  the  jungle  like  buck-rabbits.  About 
midnight  we  come  to  the  shtrame  which  I  had 
clane  forgot  to  minshin  to  my  orficer.  I  was  on, 
ahead,  wid  four  bhoys,  an'  I  thought  that  the 
Lift'nint  might  want  to  the-ourise.  'Shtrip 
boys!'  sez  1.  'Shtrip  to  the  buff,  an'  shwim  in 
where  glory  waits!' — 'But  I  cants\\vj\m\'  sez 
two  av  thim.  'To  think  I  should  live  to  hear 
that  from  a  bhoy  wid  a  board-school  edukashin!' 
sez  I.  'Take  a  lump  av  timber,  an'  me  an' 
Conoily  here  will  ferry  ye  over,  ye  young  ladies! ' 

"We  got  an  ould  tree-trunk,  an'  pushed  off 
wid  the  kits  an'  the  rifles  on  it.  The  night  was 
chokin'  dhark,  an' just  as  we  was  fairly  embarked, 
I  heard  the  Lift'nint  behind  av  me  callin'  out. 
'There's  a  bit  av  a  inillah  here,  sorr,'  sez  I,  'but 
I  can  feel  the  bottom  already.'  So  1  cud,  for  1 
was  not  a  yard  from  the  bank. 

"'Bit  av  a  nullah!  Bit  av  an  eshtuary!'  sez 
the  Lift'nint.  'Go  on,  ye  mad  Irishman!  Shtrip 
bhoys! '     I  heard  him  laugh;  an'  the  bhoys  begun 


(5o4  Indian   Tales 

shtrippin'  an  rollin'  a  log  into  the  wather  to  put 
their  kits  on.  So  me  an'  Conolly  shtruck  out 
through  the  warm  \A'ather  wid  our  log,  an'  the 
rest  come  on  behind. 

"  That  shtrame  was  miles  woide!  Orth'ris,  on 
the  rear-rank  log,  whispers  we  had  got  into  the 
Thames  below  Sheern^ss  by  mistake.  '  Kape  on 
shwimmin',  ye  little  blayguard,'  sez  1,  'an'  don't 
go  pokin'  your  dirty  jokes  at  the  Irriwaddy.'— 
'Silince,  men!'  sings  out  the  Lift'nint.  So  we 
shwum  on  into  the  black  dhark,  wid  our  chests 
on  the  logs,  trustin'  in  the  Saints  an'  the  luck  av 
the  British  Army. 

"  Evenshually,  we  hit  ground — a  bit  av  sand — 
an'  a  man.  1  put  my  heel  on  the  back  av  him. 
He  skreeched  an'  ran. 

"  *  Now  we've  done  it! '  sez  Lift'nint  Brazenose. 
'  Where  the  Divil  is  Lungtungpen  } '  There  was 
about  a  minute  and  a  half  to  wait.  The  bhoys 
laid  a  hould  av  their  rifles  an'  some  thried  to  put 
their  belts  on;  we  was  marchin'  wid  fixed  bay- 
nits  av  coorse.  Thin  we  knew  where  Lungtung- 
pen was;  for  we  had  hit  the  river-wall  av  it  in 
the  dhark,  an'  the  whole  town  blazed  wid  thim 
messin'  jingles  an'  Sniders  like  a  cat's  back  on  a 
frosty  night.  They  was  firin'  all  ways  at  wanst; 
but  over  our  bids  into  the  shtrame. 

'"Have  you  got  your  rifles?'  sez  Brazenose. 
'Got  'em!'    sez  Orth'ris.     'I've  got  that  thief 


The   Taking  of  Lungtungpen  605 

Mulvaney's  for  all  my  back-pay,  an'  she'll  kick 
my  heart  sick  wid  that  blunderin'  long  shtock  av 
hers.' — 'Go  on!'  yells  Brazenose,  whippin'  his 
sword  out.  *  Go  on  an' take  the  town!  An' the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  our  sowls! ' 

"Thin  the  bhoys  gave  wan  divastatin'  howl, 
an'  pranced  into  the  dhark,  feelin'  for  the  town, 
an'  blindin'  an'  stiffm'  like  Cavalry  Ridin'  Masters 
whin  the  grass  pricked  their  bare  legs.  1  ham- 
mered wid  the  butt  at  some  bamboo-thing  that 
felt  wake,  an'  the  rest  come  an'  hammered  con- 
tagious, while  the  jingles  was  jingling,  an'  fero- 
shus  yells  from  inside  was  shplittin'  our  ears. 
We  was  too  close  under  the  wall  for  thim  to 
hurt  us. 

"  Evenshually,  the  thing,  whatever  ut  was, 
bruk;  an'  the  six-and-twinty  av  us  tumbled,  wan 
after  the  other,  naked  as  we  was  borrun,  into 
the  town  of  Lungtungpen.  There  was  a  melly 
av  a  sumpshus  kind  for  a  whoile;  but  whether 
they  tuk  us,  all  white  an'  wet,  for  a  new  breed 
av  divil,  or  a  new  kind  av  dacoit,  I  don't  know. 
They  ran  as  though  we  was  both,  an'  we  wint 
into  thim,  baynit  an'  butt,  shriekin'  wid  laughin'. 
There  was  torches  in  the  shtreets,  an'  I  saw  little 
Orth'ris  rubbin'  his  showlther  ivry  time  he  loosed 
my  long-shtock  Martini;  an'  Brazenose  walkin' 
Into  the  gang  wid  his  sword,  like  Diarmid  av  the 
Gowlden   Collar — barring  he  hadn't  a  stitch  av 


5o6  Indian  Tales 

clothin'  on  him.  We  diskivered  elephints  wid 
dacoits  under  their  belUes,  an',  what  wid  wan 
thing  an'  another,  we  was  busy  till  mornin'  takin' 
possession  av  the  town  of  Lungtungpen. 

"Thin  we  halted  an'  formed  up,  the  wimmen 
howlin'  in  the  houses  an'  Lift'nint  Brazenose 
blushin'  pink  in  the  light  av  the  mornin'  sun. 
'Twas  the  most  ondasint  p'rade  1  iver  tuk  a  hand 
in.  Foive-and-twenty  privits  an'  a  orficer  av  the 
Line  in  review  ordher,  an'  not  as  much  as  wud 
dust  a  fife  betune  'em  all  in  the  way  of  clothin' 1 
Eight  av  us  had  their  belts  an'  pouches  on;  but 
the  rest  had  gone  in  wid  a  handful  av  cartridges 
an"  the  skin  God  gave  thim.  They  was  as  nakid 
as  Vanus. 

"'Number  off  from  the  right!'  sez  the  Lift'- 
nint. 'Odd  numbers  fall  out  to  dress;  even 
numbers  pathrol  the  town  till  relieved  by  the 
dressing  party.'  Let  me  tell  you,  pathrollin'  a 
town  wid  nothing  on  is  an  ex/)j>'rience.  I 
pathrolled  for  tin  minutes,  an'  begad,  before 
'twas  over,  I  blushed.  The  women  laughed  so, 
1  niver  blushed  before  or  since;  but  I  blushed  all 
over  my  carkiss  thin.  Orth'ris  didn't  pathrol. 
He  sez  only,  '  Portsmith  Barricks  an'  the  'Ard  av 
a  Sunday!'  Thin  he  lay  down  an'  rowled  any 
ways  wid  laughin'. 

"Whin  we  was  all  dhressed,  we  counted  the 
dead — sivinty-foive    dacoits   besides    wounded* 


The  Taking  of  Ltmgtungpen  607 

We  tuk  five  elephints,  a  hunder'  an'  sivinty 
Sniders,  two  hunder'  dahs,  and  a  lot  av  other 
burglarious  thruck.  Not  a  man  av  us  was  hurt 
— excep'  maybe  the  Lift'nint,  an'  he  from  the 
shock  to  his  dasincy. 

"The  Headman  av  Lungtungpen,  who  sur- 
rinder'd  himself,  asked  the  Interprutr — '  'Av  the 
English  fight  like  that  wid  their  clo'es  off,  what 
in  the  wurruld  do  they  do  wid  their  clo'es  on?' 
Orth'ris  began  rowlin'  his  eyes  an'  crackin'  his 
fingers  an'  dancin'  a  step-dance  for  to  impress  the 
Headman.  He  ran  to  his  house;  an'  we  spint  the 
rest  av  the  day  carryin'  the  Lift'nint  on  our 
showlthers  round  the  town,  an'  playin'  wid  the 
Burmese  babies — fat,  little,  brown  little  divils,  as 
pretty  as  picturs. 

"Whin  I  was  inviladed  for  the  dysent'ry  to 
India,  I  sez  to  the  Lift'nint,  'Sorr,'  sez  1,  'you've 
the  makin's  in  you  av  a  great  man;  but,  av  you'll 
let  an  ould  sodger  spake,  you're  too  fond  of  the- 
ourisin'.'  He  shuk  hands  wid  me  and  sez,  '  Hit 
high,  hit  low,  there's  no  plasin'  you,  Mulvaney. 
You've  seen  me  waltzin'  through  Lungtungpen 
like  a  Red  Injin  widout  the  warpaint,  an'  you  say 
I'm  too  fond  av  the-ourisin'  ?' — '  Sorr,'  sez  I,  for  I 
loved  the  bhoy;  '  I  wud  waltz  wid  you  in  that 
condishin  through  Hell,  an'  so  wud  the  rest  av 
the  men! '  Thin  1  wint  downshtrame  in  the  flat 
an'  left  him  my  blessin'.     May  the  Saints  carry  ut 


6o8  Indian  Tales 

where  ut  shud  go,  for  he  was  a  fine  upstandin' 
young  orficer. 

"To  reshume.  Fwhat  I've  said  jist  shows  the 
use  av  three-year-olds.  Wud  fifty  seasoned 
sodgers  have  taken  Lungtungpen  in  the  dhark 
that  way  ?  No!  They'd  know  the  risk  av  fever 
and  chill.  Let  alone  the  shootin*.  Two  hundher' 
might  have  done  ut.  But  the  three-year-olds 
know  little  an'  care  less;  an'  where  there's  no 
fear,  there's  no  danger.  Catch  thim  young,  feed 
thim  high,  an'  by  the  honor  av  that  great,  little 
man  Bobs,  behind  a  good  orficer  'tisn't  only 
dacoits  they'd  smash  wid  their  clo'es  off — 'tis 
Con-ti-nental  Ar-r-r-mies!  They  tuk  Lungtung- 
pen nakid;  an'  they'd  take  St.  Pethersburg  in 
their  dhrawers!     Begad,  they  would  that! 

"  Here's  your  pipe,  sorr.  Shmoke  her  tinderly 
wid  honey-dew,  afther  letting  the  reek  av  the 
Canteen  plug  die  away.  But  'tis  no  good,  thanks 
to  you  all  the  same,  fillin'  my  pouch  wid  your 
chopped  hay.  Canteen  baccy's  like  the  Army. 
It  shpoils  a  man's  taste  for  moilder  things." 

So  saying,  Mulvaney  took  up  his  butterfly-net, 
and  returned  to  barracks. 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 
Nor  Powers  of  Darkness  me  molest. 

— Evening  Hymn, 

ONE  of  the  few  advantages  that  India  has 
over  England  is  a  great  Knowability. 
After  five  years'  service  a  man  is  directly  or  in- 
directly acquainted  with  the  two  or  three  hun- 
dred Civilians  in  his  Province,  all  the  Messes  of 
ten  or  twelve  Regiments  and  Batteries,  and  some 
fifteen  hundred  other  people  of  the  non-official 
caste.  In  ten  years  his  knowledge  should  be 
doubled,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty  he  knows,  or 
knows  something  about,  every  Englishman  in 
the  Empire,  and  may  travel  anywhere  and  every- 
where without  paying  hotel-bills. 

Globe-trotters  who  expect  entertainment  as  a 
/ight,  have,  even  within  my  memory,  blunted 
this  open-heartedness,  but  none  the  less  to-day, 
if  you  belong  to  the  Inner  Circle  and  are  neither 
a  Bear  nor  a  Black  Sheep,  all  houses  are  open  to 
you,  and  our  small  world  is  very,  very  kind  and 
helpful. 

Rickett  of  Kamartha  stayed  with  Polder  of 
609 


6io  Indian  Tales 

Kumaon  some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  meant  to 
stay  two  nights,  but  was  knocked  down  by 
rheumatic  fever,  and  for  six  weeks  disorganized 
Polder's  establishment,  stopped  Polder's  w  ork, 
and  nearly  died  in  Polder's  bedroom.  Folder 
behaves  as  though  he  had  been  placed  under 
eternal  obligation  by  Rickett,  and  yearly  sends 
the  little  Ricketts  a  box  of  presents  and  toys.  It 
is  the  same  everywhere.  The  men  who  do  not 
take  the  trouble  to  conceal  from  you  their  opin- 
ion that  you  are  an  incompetent  ass,  and  the 
women  who  blacken  your  character  and  mis- 
understand your  wife's  amusements,  will  work 
themselves  to  the  bone  in  your  behalf  if  you  fall 
sick  or  into  serious  trouble. 

Heatherlegh,  the  Doctor,  kept,  in  addition  to  his 
regular  practice,  a  hospital  on  his  private  account 
— an  arrangement  of  loose  boxes  for  Incurables, 
his  friend  called  it — but  it  was  really  a  sort  of 
fitting-up  shed  for  craft  that  had  been  damaged 
by  stress  of  weather.  The  weather  in  India  is 
often  sultry,  and  since  the  tale  of  bricks  is  always 
a  fixed  quantity,  and  the  only  liberty  allowed  is 
permission  to  work  overtime  and  get  no  thanks, 
men  occasionally  break  down  and  become  as 
mixed  as  the  metaphors  in  this  sentence. 

Heatherlegh  is  the  dearest  doctor  that  ever 
was,  and  his  invariable  prescription  to  all  his 
patients  is,  "lie  low,  go  slow,  and  keep  cool." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  6ii 

He  says  that  more  men  are  killed  by  overwork 
than  the  importance  of  this  world  justifies.  He 
maintains  that  overwork  slew  Pansay,  who  died 
under  his  hands  about  three  years  ago.  He  has, 
of  course,  the  right  to  speak  authoritatively,  and 
he  laughs  at  my  theory  that  there  was  a  crack  in 
Pansay's  head  and  a  little  bit  of  the  Dark  World 
came  through  and  pressed  him  to  death.  *'  Pan- 
say  went  off  the  handle,"  says  Heatherlegh, 
"after  the  stimulus  of  long  leave  at  Home.  He 
may  or  he  may  not  have  behaved  like  a  black- 
guard to  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington.  My  notion  is 
that  the  work  of  the  Katabundi  Settlement  ran 
him  off  his  legs,  and  that  he  took  to  brooding 
and  making  much  of  an  ordinary  P.  &  O.  flirta- 
tion. He  certainly  was  engaged  to  Miss  Man- 
nering,  and  she  certainly  broke  off  the  engage- 
ment. Then  he  took  a  feverish  chill  and  all  that 
nonsense  about  ghosts  developed.  Overwork 
started  his  illness,  kept  it  alight,  and  killed  him, 
poor  devil.  Write  him  off  to  the  System — one 
man  to  take  the  work  of  two  and  a  half  men." 

I  do  not  believe  this.  I  used  to  sit  up  with 
Pansay  sometimes  when  Heatherlegh  was  called 
out  to  patients,  and  1  happened  to  be  within 
claim.  The  man  would  make  me  most  unhappy 
by  describing  in  a  low,  even  voice,  the  proces- 
sion that  was  always  passing  at  the  bottom  of 
his  bed.     He  had  a  sick  man's  command  of  Ian- 


6i2  Indian  Tales 

guage.  When  he  recovered  I  suggested  that  he 
should  write  out  the  whole  affair  from  beginning 
to  end,  knowing  that  ink  might  assist  him  to 
ease  his  mind.  When  little  boys  have  learned  a 
new  bad  word  they  are  never  happy  till  they 
have  chalked  it  up  on  a  door.  And  this  also  is 
Literature. 

He  was  in  a  high  fever  while  he  was  writing, 
and  the  blood-and-thunder  Magazine  diction  he 
adopted  did  not  calm  him.  Two  months  after- 
ward he  was  reported  Jt  for  duty,  but,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  urgently  needed  to  help 
an  undermanned  Commission  stagger  through  a 
deficit,  he  preferred  to  die;  vowing  at  the  last 
that  he  was  hag-ridden.  I  got  his  manuscript 
before  he  died,  and  this  is  his  version  of  the 
affair,  dated  1885: 

My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  need  rest  and  change 
of  air.  It  is  not  improbable  that  1  shall  get  both 
ere  long — rest  that  neither  the  red-coated  mes- 
senger nor  the  midday  gun  can  break,  and 
change  of  air  far  beyond  that  which  any  home- 
ward-bound steamer  can  give  me.  In  the  mean- 
time I  am  resolved  to  stay  where  I  am;  and,  in 
flat  defiance  of  my  doctor's  orders,  to  take  all  the 
world  into  my  confidence.  You  shall  learn  for 
yourselves  the  precise  nature  of  my  malady;  and 
shall,  too,  judge  for  yourselves  whether  any  man 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  613 

born  of  woman  on  this  weary  earth  was  ever 
so  tormented  as  I. 

Speaking  now  as  a  condemned  criminal  might 
speak  ere  the  drop-bolts  are  drawn,  my  story, 
wild  and  hideously  improbable  as  it  may  appear, 
demands  at  least  attention.  That  it  will  ever 
receive  credence  1  utterly  disbelieve.  Two 
months  ago  1  should  have  scouted  as  mad  or 
drunk  the  man  who  had  dared  tell  me  the  like. 
Two  months  ago  I  was  the  happiest  man  in 
India.  To-day,  from  Peshawur  to  the  sea,  there 
is  no  one  more  wretched.  My  doctor  and  I  are 
the  only  two  who  know  this.  His  explanation 
is,  that  my  brain,  digestion,  and  eyesight  are  all 
slightly  affected;  giving  rise  to  my  f.equent  and 
persistent  "delusions."  Delusions,  indeed!  I 
call  him  a  fooi;  but  he  attends  me  still  with  the 
same  unwearied  smile,  the  same  bland  pro- 
fessional manner,  the  same  neatly  trimmed  red 
whiskers,  till  1  begin  to  suspect  that  1  am  an  un- 
grateful, evil-tempered  invalid.  But  you  shall 
judge  for  yourselves. 

Three  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune — my  great 
misfortune — to  sail  from  Gravesend  to  Bombay, 
on  return  from  long  leave,  with  one  Agnes 
Keith-Wessington,  wife  of  an  officer  on  the 
Bombay  side.  It  does  not  in  the  least  concern 
you  to  know  what  manner  of  woman  she  was. 
Be  content  with  the   knowledge  that,  ere  the 


6i4  mdian   Tales 

voyage  had  ended,  both  she  and  I  were  desper- 
ately and  unreasoningly  in  love  with  one  another. 
Heaven  knows  that  I  can  make  the  admission 
now  without  one  particle  of  vanity.  In  matters 
of  this  sort  there  is  always  one  who  gives  and 
another  who  accepts.  From  the  first  day  of  our 
ill-omened  attachment,  1  was  conscious  that 
Agnes's  passion  was  a  stronger,  a  more  dom- 
inant, and — if  I  may  use  the  expression — a 
purer  sentiment  than  mine.  Whether  she  recog- 
nized the  fact  then,  I  do  not  know.  Afterward 
it  was  bitterly  plain  to  both  of  us. 

Arrived  at  Bombay  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
we  went  our  respective  ways,  to  meet  no  more 
for  the  next  three  or  four  months,  when  my  leave 
and  her  love  took  us  both  to  Simla.  There  we 
spent  the  season  together;  and  there  my  tire  of 
straw  burned  itself  out  to  a  pitiful  end  with 
the  closing  year.  1  attempt  no  excuse.  I  make 
no  apology.  Mrs.  Wessington  had  given  up 
much  for  my  sake,  and  was  prepared  to  give  up 
all.  From  my  own  lips,  in  August,  1882,  she 
learned  that  I  was  sick  of  her  presence,  tired  of 
her  company,  and  weary  of  the  sound  of  her 
voice.  Ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  hundred 
would  have  wearied  of  me  as  I  wearied  of  them; 
seventy-five  of  that  number  would  have  promptly 
avenged  themselves  by  active  and  obtrusive  flir- 
tation with  other  men.     Mrs.  Wessington  was  the 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  615 

hundredth.  On  her  neither  my  openly  expressed 
aversion  nor  the  cutting  brutahties  with  which  I 
garnished  our  interviews  had  the  least  effect. 

"Jack,  darling!"  was  her  one  eternal  cuckoo 
cry:  "I'm  sure  it's  all  a  mistake — a  hideous  mis- 
take; and  we'll  be  good  friends  again  some  day. 
Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  dear." 

I  was  the  offender,  and  I  knew  it.  That 
knowledge  transformed  my  pity  into  passive  en- 
durance, and,  eventually,  into  bHnd  hate — the 
same  instinct,  I  suppose,  which  prompts  a  man 
to  savagely  stamp  on  the  spider  he  has  but  half 
killed.  And  with  this  hate  in  my  bosom  the 
season  of  1882  came  to  an  Qwd. 

Next  year  we  met  again  at  Simla — she  with  her 
monotonous  face  and  timid  attempts  at  reconcili- 
ation, and  1  with  loathing  of  her  in  every  fibre 
of  my  frame.  Several  times  I  could  not  avoid 
meeting  her  alone;  and  on  each  occasion  her 
words  were  identically  the  same.  Still  the  un- 
reasoning wail  that  it  was  ill  a  "  mistake  ";  and 
still  the  hope  of  eventually  "  making  friends."  I 
might  have  seen  had  I  cared  to  look,  that  that 
hope  only  was  keeping  her  alive.  She  grew 
more  wan  and  thin  month  by  month.  You  will 
agree  with  me,  at  least,  that  such  conduct  would 
have  driven  any  one  to  despair.  It  was  uncalled 
for;  childish;  unwomanly.  I  maintain  that  she 
was  much  to  blame.     And  again,  sometim.es,  in 


6i6  Indian  Tales 

the  black,  fever-stricken  night-watches,  I  have 
begun  to  think  that  I  might  have  been  a  little 
kinder  to  her.  But  that  really  is  a  "delusion." 
1  could  not  have  continued  pretending  to  love  her 
when  I  didn't;  could  1  ?  It  would  have  been  un- 
fair to  us  both. 

Last  year  we  met  again — on  the  same  terms  as 
before.  The  same  weary  appeals,  and  the  same 
curt  answers  from  my  lips.  At  least  I  would 
make  her  see  how  wholly  wrong  and  hopeless 
were  her  attempts  at  resuming  the  old  relation- 
ship. As  the  season  wore  on,  we  fell  apart — 
that  is  to  say,  she  found  it  difficult  to  meet  me, 
for  I  had  other  and  more  absorbing  interests  to 
attend  to.  When  1  think  it  over  quietly  in  my 
sick-room,  the  season  of  1884  seems  a  confused 
nightmare  wherein  light  and  shade  were  fan- 
tastically intermingled — my  courtship  of  little 
Kitty  Mannering;  my  hopes,  doubts,  and  fears; 
our  long  rides  together;  my  trembling  avowal  of 
attachment;  her  reply;  and  now  and  again  a 
vision  of  a  white  face  flitting  by  in  the  'rickshaw 
with  the  black  and  white  liveries  I  once  watched 
for  so  earnestly;  the  wave  of  Mrs.  Wessington's 
gloved  hand;  and,  when  she  met  me  alone, 
which  was  but  seldom,  the  irksome  monotony  of 
her  appeal.  I  loved  Kitty  Mannering;  honestly, 
heartily  loved  her,  and  with  my  love  for  her  grew 
my  hatred  for  Agnes.     In  August  Kitty  and  I 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  617 

were  engaged.  The  next  day  I  met  those  ac- 
cursed "magpie"  jhampanies  at  the  back  of 
Jakko,  and,  moved  by  some  passing  sentiment  of 
pity,  stopped  to  tell  Mrs.  Wessington  everything. 
She  knew  it  already. 

"So  1  hear  you're  engaged,  Jack  dear."  Then, 
without  a  moment's  pause: — "I'm  sure  it's  all  a 
mistake — a  hideous  mistake.  We  shall  be  as 
good  friends  some  day.  Jack,  as  we  ever  were." 

My  answer  might  have  made  even  a  man  wince. 
It  cut  the  dying  woman  before  me  like  the  blow 
of  a  whip.  ".Please  forgive  me,  Jack;  I  didn't 
mean  to  make  you  angry;  but  it's  true,  it's  true!" 

And  Mrs.  Wessington  broke  down  completely. 
I  turned  away  and  left  her  to  finish  her  journey 
in  peace,  feeling,  but  only  for  a  moment  or  two, 
that  I  had  been  an  unutterably  mean  hound.  I 
looked  back,  and  saw  that  she  had  turned  her 
'rickshaw  with  the  idea,  I  suppose,  of  overtaking 
me. 

The  scene  and  its  surroundings  were  photo- 
graphed on  my  memory.  The  rain-swept  sky 
(we  were  at  the  end  of  the  wet  weather),  the 
sodden,  dingy  pines,  the  muddy  road,  and  the 
black  powder-riven  cliffs  formed  a  gloomy  back- 
ground against  which  the  black  and  white  liveries 
of  the  jhampanies,  the  yellow-paneled  'rickshaw 
and  Mrs.  Wessington's  down-bowed  golden  head 
stood  out  clearly.     She  was  holding  her  handker- 


6i8  Indian  Tales 

chief  in  her  left  hand  and  was  leaning  back  ex- 
hausted against  the  'rickshaw  cushions.  I  turned 
my  horse  up  a  bypath  near  the  Saniowlie  Reser- 
voir and  literally  ran  away.  Once  I  fancied  I 
heard  a  faint  call  of  "Jack!"  This  may  have 
been  imagination.  1  never  stopped  to  verify  it. 
Ten  minutes  later  I  came  across  Kitty  on  horse- 
back; and,  in  the  delight  of  a  long  ride  with  her, 
forgot  all  about  the  interview. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Wessington  died,  and  the 
inexpressible  burden  of  her  existence  was  re- 
moved from  my  life.  I  went  Plainsward  per- 
fectly happy.  Before  three  months  v/ere  over  I 
had  forgotten  all  about  her,  except  that  at  times 
the  discovery  of  some  of  her  old  letters  reminded 
me  unpleasantly  of  our  bygone  relationship.  By 
January  1  had  disinterred  what  was  left  of  our 
correspondence  from  among  my  scattered  be- 
longings and  had  burned  it.  At  the  beginning  of 
April  of  this  year,  1885,  I  was  at  Simla — semi- 
deserted  Simla — once  more,  and  was  deep  in 
lover's  talks  and  walks  with  Kitty.  It  was  de- 
cided that  we  should  be  married  at  the  end  of 
June.  You  will  understand,  therefore,  that,  lov- 
ing Kitty  as  I  did,  1  am  not  saying  too  much 
when  1  pronounce  myself  to  have  been,  at  that 
time,  the  happiest  man  in  India. 

Fourteen  delightful  days  passed  almost  before 
I  noticed  their  flight.     Then,  aroused  to  the  sense 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  619 

of  what  was  proper  among  mortals  circum- 
stanced as  we  were,  I  pointed  out  to  Kitty  that 
an  engagement  ring  was  the  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  her  dignity  as  an  engaged  girl;  and  that 
she  must  forthwith  come  to  Hamilton's  to  be 
measured  for  one.  Up  to  that  moment,  I  give 
you  my  word,  we  had  completely  forgotten  so 
trivial  a  matter.  To  Hamilton's  we  accordingly 
went  on  the  15th  of  April,  1885.  Remember 
that — whatever  my  doctor  may  say  to  the  con- 
trary— I  was  then  in  perfect  health,  enjoying  a 
well-balanced  mind  and  an  absolutely  tranquil 
spirit.  Kitty  and  I  entered  Hamilton's  shop  to- 
gether, and  there,  regardless  of  the  order  of 
affairs,  I  measured  Kitty  for  the  ring  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  amused  assistant.  The  ring  was  a 
sapphire  with  two  diamonds.  We  then  rode  out 
down  the  slope  that  leads  to  the  Combermere 
Bridge  and  Peliti's  shop. 

While  my  Waler  was  cautiously  feeling  his 
way  over  the  loose  shale,  and  Kitty  was  laugh- 
ing and  chattering  at  my  side — while  all  Simla, 
that  is  to  say  as  much  of  it  as  had  then  come 
from  the  Plains,  was  grouped  round  the  Reading- 
room  and  Peliti's  veranda, — I  was  aware  that 
some  one,  apparently  at  a  vast  distance,  was  call- 
ing me  by  my  Christian  name.  It  struck  me  that 
I  had  heard  the  voice  before,  but  when  and  where 
1  could  not  at  once  determine.     In  the  short  space 


620  Indian  Tales 

it  took  to  cover  the  road  between  the  path  from 
Hamilton's  shop  and  the  first  plank  of  the  Com- 
bermere  Bridge  I  had  thought  over  half  a  dozen 
people  who  might  have  committed  such  a  sole- 
cism, and  had  eventually  decided  that  it  must  have 
been  singing  in  my  ears.  Immediately  opposite 
Peliti's  shop  my  eye  was  arrested  by  the  sight  of 
four  jhampam'es  in  "magpie"  livery,  pulling  a 
yellow-paneled,  cheap,  bazar  'rickshaw.  In  a 
moment  my  mind  flew  back  to  the  previous  sea- 
son and  Mrs.  Wessington  with  a  sense  of  irrita- 
tion and  disgust.  Was  it  not  enough  that  the 
woman  was  dead  and  done  with,  without  her 
black  and  white  servitors  reappearing  to  spoil  the 
day's  happiness  ?  Whoever  employed  them  now 
I  thought  I  would  call  upon,  and  ask  as  a  per- 
sonal favor  to  change  her  jhampanies'  livery.  I 
would  hire  the  men  myself,  and,  if  necessary, 
buy  their  coats  from  off  their  backs.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  here  what  a  flood  of  undesirable 
memories  their  presence  evoked. 

"Kitty,"  I  cried,  "there  are  poor  Mrs.  Wes- 
s'mgton's  jhampanies  turned  up  again !  I  wonder 
who  has  them  now  ?  " 

Kitty  had  known  Mrs.  Wessington  slightly  last 
season,  and  had  always  been  interested  in  the 
sickly  woman. 

"What.^  Where  .^  "  she  asked.  "I  can't  see 
them  anywhere." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  621 

Even  as  she  spoke,  her  horse,  swerving  from  a 
laden  mule,  threv^  himself  directly  in  front  of  the 
advancing  'rickshaw.  I  had  ccarcely  time  to 
utter  a  word  of  warning  when,  to  my  unutterable 
horror,  horse  and  rider  passed  through  men  and 
carriage  as  if  they  had  been  thin  air. 

"What's  the  matter.^"  cried  Kitty;  "what 
made  you  call  out  so  foolishly,  jack  ?  If  1  am 
engaged  1  don't  want  all  creation  to  know  about 
it.  There  was  lots  of  space  between  the  mule 
and  the  veranda;  and,  if  you  think  1  can't  ride 
—    There!" 

Whereupon  wilful  Kitty  set  off,  her  dainty 
little  head  in  the  air,  at  a  hand-gallop  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Band-stand;  fully  expecting,  as 
she  herself  afterward  told  me,  that  1  should  fol- 
low her.  What  was  the  matter  ?  Nothing  in- 
deed. Either  that  1  was  mad  or  drunk,  or  that 
Simla  was  haunted  with  devils.  1  reined  in  my 
impatient  cob,  and  turned  round.  The  'rickshaw 
had  turned  too,  and  now  stood  immediately 
facing  me,  near  the  left  railing  of  the  Comber- 
mere  Bridge. 

"Jack!  Jack,  darling!"  (There  was  no  mis- 
take about  the  words  this  time:  they  rang 
through  my  brain  as  if  they  had  been  shouted  in 
my  ear.)  "  It's  some  hideous  mistake,  I'm  sure. 
Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  and  let's  be  friends 
again." 


522  Indian  Tales 

The  rickshaw-hood  had  fallen  back,  and  in- 
side, as  I  hope  and  pray  daily  for  the  death  1 
dread  by  night,  sat  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington, 
handkerchief  in  hand,  and  golden  head  bowed 
on  her  breast. 

How  long  I  stared  motionless  1  do  not  know. 
Finally,  I  was  aroused  by  my  syce  taking  the 
Waler's  bridle  and  asking  whether  I  was  ill. 
From  the  horrible  to  the  commonplace  is  but 
a  step.  I  tumbled  off  my  horse  and  dashed, 
half  fainting,  into  Peliti's  for  a  glass  of  cherry- 
brandy.  There  two  or  three  couples  were  gath- 
ered round  the  coffee-tables  discussing  the  gos- 
sip of  the  day.  Their  trivialities  were  more 
comforting  to  me  just  then  than  the  consolations 
of  religion  could  have  been.  1  plunged  into  the 
midst  of  the  conversation  at  once;  chatted, 
laughed,  and  jested  with  a  face  (when  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  it  in  a  mirror)  as  white  and  drawn 
as  that  of  a  corpse.  Three  or  four  men  noticed 
my  condition;  and,  evidently  setting  it  down  to 
the  results  of  over-many  pegs,  charitably  en- 
deavored to  draw  me  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
loungers.  But  I  refused  to  be  led  away.  I 
wanted  the  company  of  my  kind — as  a  child 
rushes  into  the  midst  of  the  dinner-party  after  a 
fright  in  the  dark.  I  must  have  talked  for  about 
ten  minutes  or  so,  though  it  seemed  an  eternity 
to  me,  when  I  heard  Kitty's  clear  voice  outside 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  623 

inquiring  for  me.  In  another  minute  she  had 
entered  the  shop,  prepared  to  roundly  upbraid 
me  for  failing  so  signally  in  my  duties.  Some- 
thing in  my  face  stopped  her. 

"Why,  Jack,"  she  cried,  "what  have  you 
been  doing  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Are  you 
ill  ?  "  Thus  driven  into  a  direct  lie,  I  said  that 
the  sun  had  been  a  little  too  much  for  me.  It 
was  close  upon  five  o'clock  of  a  cloudy  April 
afternoon,  and  the  sun  had  been  hidden  all  day. 
1  saw  my  mistake  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out 
of  my  mouth:  attempted  to  recover  it;  blun- 
dered hopelessly  and  followed  Kitty  in  a  regal 
rage,  out  of  doors,  amid  the  smiles  of  my 
acquaintances.  I  made  some  excuse  (1  have  for- 
gotten what)  on  the  score  of  my  feeling  faint; 
and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  leaving  Kitty  to 
finish  the  ride  by  herself. 

In  my  room  1  sat  down  and  tried  calmly  to 
reason  out  the  matter.  Here  was  I,  Theobald 
Jack  Pansay,  a  well-educated  Bengal  Civilian  in 
the  year  of  grace  188s,  presumably  sane,  cer- 
tainly healthy,  driven  in  terror  from  my  sweet- 
heart's side  by  the  apparition  of  a  woman  who 
had  been  dead  and  buried  eight  months  ago. 
These  were  facts  that  I  could  not  blink.  Noth- 
ing was  further  from  my  thought  than  any 
memory  of  Mrs.  Wessington  when  Kitty  and  1 
left  Hamilton's  shop.     Nothing  was  more  utterly 


624  Indian  Tales 

commonplace  than  the  stretch  of  wall  opposite 
Peliti's.  It  was  broad  daylight.  The  road  was 
full  of  people;  and  yet  here,  look  you,  in  de- 
fiance of  every  law  of  probability,  in  direct  out- 
rage of  Nature's  ordinance,  there  had  appeared  to 
me  a  face  from  the  grave. 

Kitty's  Arab  had  gone //^roz/^/?  the 'rickshaw: 
so  that  my  first  hope  that  some  woman  marvel- 
ously  like  Mrs.  Wessington  had  hired  the  car- 
riage and  the  coolies  with  their  old  livery  was 
lost.  Again  and  again  I  went  round  this  tread- 
mill of  thought;  and  again  and  again  gave  up 
baffled  and  in  despair.  The  voice  was  as  inex- 
plicable as  the  apparition.  I  had  originally  some 
wild  notion  of  confiding  it  all  to  Kitty;  of  beg- 
ging her  to  marry  me  at  once;  and  in  her  arms 
defying  the  ghostly  occupant  of  the  'rickshaw. 
"After  all,"  I  argued,  "the  presence  of  the 
'rickshaw  is  in  itself  enough  to  prove  the  exist- 
ence of  a  spectral  illusion.  One  may  see  ghosts 
of  men  and  women,  but  surely  never  of  coolies 
and  carriages.  The  whole  thing  is  absurd. 
Fancy  the  ghost  of  a  hillman! " 

Next  morning  I  sent  a  penitent  note  to  Kitty, 
imploring  her  to  overlook  my  strange  conduct  of 
the  previous  afternoon.  My  Divinity  was  still 
very  wroth,  and  a  personal  apology  was  neces- 
sary. 1  explained,  with  a  fluency  born  of  night- 
long pondering  over  a  falsehood,  that  I  had  been 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  625 

attacked  with  a  sudden  palpitation  of  the  heart — 
the  result  of  indigestion.  This  eminently  prac- 
tical solution  had  its  effect;  and  Kitty  and  1  rode 
out  that  afternoon  with  the  shadow  of  my  first 
lie  dividing  us. 

Nothing  would  please  her  save  a  canter  round 
Jakko.  With  my  nerves  still  unstrung  from  the 
previous  night  I  feebly  protested  against  the  no- 
tion, suggesting  Observatory  Hill,  Jutogh,  the 
Boileaugunge  road — anything  rather  than  the 
Jakko  round.  Kitty  was  angry  and  a  little  hurt: 
so  1  yielded  from  fear  of  provoking  further  mis- 
understanding, and  we  set  out  together  toward 
Chota  Simla.  We  walked  a  greater  part  of  the 
way,  and,  according  to  our  custom,  cantered 
from  a  mile  or  so  below  the  Convent  to  the 
stretch  of  level  road  by  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir. 
The  wretched  horses  appeared  to  fly,  and  my 
heart  beat  quicker  and  quicker  as  we  neared  the 
crest  of  the  ascent.  My  mind  had  been  full  of 
Mrs.  Wessington  all  the  afternoon;  and  every 
inch  of  the  Jakko  road  bore  witness  to  our  old- 
time  walks  and  talks.  The  bowlders  were  full 
of  it;  the  pines  sang  it  aloud  overhead;  the 
rain-fed  torrents  giggled  and  chuckled  unseen 
over  the  shameful  story;  and  the  wind  in  my 
ears  chanted  the  iniquity  aloud. 

As  a  fitting  climax,  in  the  middle  of  the  level 
men  call  the  Ladies'  Mile  the  Horror  was  awaiting 


626  Indian  Tales 

me.  No  other  'rickshaw  was  in  sight — only  the 
four  black  and  white  jhampanies,  the  yellow- 
paneled  carriage,  and  the  golden  head  of  the 
woman  within — all  apparently  just  as  I  had  left 
them  eight  months  and  one  fortnight  ago!  For 
an  instant  1  fancied  that  Kitty  must  see  what  1 
saw — we  were  so  marvelously  sympathetic  in 
all  things.  Her  next  words  undeceived  me — 
"  Not  a  soul  in  sight!  Come  along,  Jack,  and  I'll 
race  you  to  the  Reservoir  buildings!  "  Her  v/iry 
little  Arab  was  off  like  a  bird,  my  Waler  follow- 
ing close  behind,  and  in  this  order  we  dashed 
under  the  cliffs.  Half  a  minute  brought  us 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  'rickshaw.  I  pulled  my 
Waler  and  fell  back  a  little.  The  'rickshaw  was 
directly  in  the  middle  of  the  road;  and  once  more 
the  Arab  passed  through  it,  my  horse  following. 
"Jack!  Jack  dear!  Please  forgive  me,"  rang 
with  a  wail  in  my  ears,  and,  after  an  interval: — 
"  It's  all  a  mistake,  a  hideous  mistake!  " 

I  spurred  my  horse  like  a  man  possessed. 
When  1  turned  my  head  at  the  Reservoir  works, 
the  black  and  v/hite  liveries  were  still  waiting — 
patiently  waiting — under  the  grey  hillside,  and 
the  wind  brought  me  a  mocking  echo  of  the 
words  I  had  just  heard.  Kitty  bantered  me  a 
good  deal  on  my  silence  throughout  the  remain- 
der of  the  ride.  I  had  been  talking  up  till  then 
wildly  and  at  random.     To  save  my  life  I  could 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  627 

not  speak  afterward  naturally,  and  from  San- 
jowlie  to  the  Church  wisely  held  my  tongue. 

I  was  to  dine  with  the  Mannerings  that  night, 
and  had  barely  time  to  canter  home  to  dress. 
On  the  road  to  Elysium  Hill  1  overheard  two  men 
talking  together  in  the  dusk. — "It's  a  curious 
thing,"  said  one,  "how  completely  all  trace  of  it 
disappeared.  You  know  my  wife  was  insanely 
fond  of  the  woman  ('never  could  see  anything  in 
her  myself),  and  wanted  me  to  pick  up  her  old 
'rickshaw  and  coolies  if  they  were  to  be  got  for 
love  or  money.  Morbid  sort  of  fancy  I  call  it; 
but  I've  got  to  do  what  the  Memsahib  tells  me. 
Would  you  believe  that  the  man  she  hired  it 
from  tells  me  that  all  four  of  the  men — they  were 
brothers — died  of  cholera  on  the  way  to  Hard- 
war,  poor  devils;  and  the  'rickshaw  has  been 
broken  up  by  the  man  himself,  'Told  me  he 
never  used  a  dead  Memsahib' s  'rickshaw.  'Spoiled 
his  luck.  Queer  notion,  v/asn't  it  ?  Fancy  poor 
little  Mrs.  Wessington  spoiling  any  one's  luck 
except  her  own!  "  1  laughed  aloud  at  this  point; 
and  my  laugh  jarred  on  me  as  I  uttered  it.  So 
there  were  ghosts  of  'rickshaws  after  all,  and 
ghostly  employments  in  the  other  world!  How 
much  did  Mrs.  Wessington  give  her  men  ?  What 
were  their  hours  }    Where  did  they  go  ? 

And  for  visible  answer  to  my  last  question  I 
saw  the  infernal  Thing  blocking  my  path  in  the 


628  Indian   Tales 

twilight.  The  dead  travel  fast,  and  by  short  cuts 
unknown  to  ordinary  coolies.  I  laughed  aloud  a 
second  time  and  checked  my  laughter  suddenly, 
for  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  mad.  Mad  to  a 
certain  extent  I  must  have  been,  for  I  recollect 
that  1  reined  in  my  horse  at  the  head  of  the  'rick- 
shaw, and  politely  wished  Mrs.  Wessington 
"Good-evening."  Her  answer  was  one  I  knew 
only  too  well.  I  listened  to  the  end;  and  replied 
that  I  had  heard  it  all  before,  but  should  be  de- 
lighted if  she  had  anything  further  to  say.  Some 
malignant  devil  stronger  than  I  must  have  en 
tered  into  me  that  evening,  for  I  have  a  dim  rec- 
ollection of  talking  the  commonplaces  of  the 
day  for  five  minutes  to  the  Thing  in  front  of  me. 

"  Mad  as  a  hatter,  poor  devil — or  drunk.  Max, 
try  and  get  him  to  come  home." 

Surely  ///j/ was  not  Mrs.  Wessington's  voice! 
The  two  men  had  overheard  me  speaking  to  the 
empty  air,  and  had  returned  to  look  after  me. 
They  were  very  kind  and  considerate,  and  from 
their  words  evidently  gathered  that  I  was  ex- 
tremely drunk.  I  thanked  them  confusedly  and 
cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  there  changed,  and 
arrived  at  the  Mannerings'  ten  minutes  late.  I 
pleaded  the  darkness  of  the  night  as  an  excuse; 
was  rebuked  by  Kitty  for  my  unlover-like  tardi- 
ness; and  sat  down. 

The  conversation  had  already  become  general; 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  629 

and  under  cover  of  it,  I  was  addressing  some 
tender  small  talk  to  my  sweetheart  when  I  was 
aware  that  at  the  further  end  of  the  table  a  short 
red-whiskered  man  was  describing,  with  much 
broidery,  his  encounter  with  a  mad  unknown 
that  evening. 

A  few  sentences  convinced  me  that  he  was  re- 
peating the  incident  of  half  an  hour  ago.  In  the 
middle  of  the  story  he  looked  round  for  applause, 
as  professional  story-tellers  do,  caught  my  eye, 
and  straightv/ay  collapsed.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's awkward  silence,  and  the  red-whiskered 
man  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  "forgotten  the  rest,"  thereby  sacrificing  a 
reputation  as  a  good  story-teller  which  he  had 
built  up  for  six  seasons  past.  I  blessed  him 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and — went  on 
with  my  fish. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  that  dinner  came  to  an 
end;  and  with  genuine  regret  I  tore  myself  away 
from  Kitty — as  certain  as  I  was  of  my  own  ex- 
istence that  It  would  be  waiting  for  me  outside 
the  door.  The  red-whiskered  man,  who  had 
been  introduced  to  me  as  Doctor  Heatherlegh  of 
Simla,  volunteered  to  bear  me  company  as  far  as 
our  roads  lay  together.  I  accepted  his  offer  with 
gratitude. 

My  instinct  had  not  deceived  me.  It  lay  in 
readiness  in  the  Mall,  and,  in  what  seemed  devil- 


630  Indian   Tales 

ish  mockery  of  our  ways,  with  a  lighted  head- 
lamp. The  red-whiskered  man  went  to  the 
point  at  once,  in  a  manner  that  showed  he  had 
been  thinking  over  it  all  dinner  time. 

"  I  say,  Pansay,  what  the  deuce  was  the  mat- 
ter with  you  this  evening  on  the  Elysium  road  ?" 
The  suddenness  of  the  question  wrenched  an  an- 
swer from  me  before  I  was  aware. 

"That!  "  said  I,  pointing  to  It. 

"  That  may  be  either  D.  T.  or  Eyes  for  aught  I 
know.  Now  you  don't  liquor.  I  saw  as  much 
at  dinner,  so  it  can  t  be  D.  T.  There's  nothing 
whatever  where  you're  pointing,  though  you're 
sweating  and  trembling  with  fright  like  a  scared 
pony.  Therefore,  I  conclude  that  it's  Eyes.  And 
I  ought  to  understand  all  about  them.  Come 
along  home  with  me.  I'm  on  the  Blessington 
lower  road." 

To  my  intense  delight  the  'rickshaw  instead  of 
waiting  for  us  kept  about  twenty  yards  ahead — 
and  this,  too,  whether  we  walked,  trotted,  or 
cantered.  In  the  course  of  that  long  night  ride  I 
had  told  my  companion  almost  as  much  as  1  have 
told  you  here. 

'•Well,  you've  spoiled  one  of  the  best  tales 
I've  ever  laid  tongue  to,"  said  he,  "but  I'll  for- 
give you  for  the  sake  of  what  you've  gone 
through.  Now  come  home  and  do  what  I  tell 
you;  and  when  I've  cured  you,  young  man,  let 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  631 

this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  steer  clear  of  women 
and  indigestible  food  till  the  day  of  your  death." 

The  'rickshaw  kept  steady  in  front;  and  my 
red-whiskered  friend  seemed  to  derive  great 
pleasure  from  my  account  of  its  exact  where- 
abouts. 

"Eyes,  Pansay — all  Eyes,  Brain,  and  Stomach. 
And  the  greatest  of  these  three  is  Stomach. 
You've  too  much  conceited  Brain,  too  little 
Stomach,  and  thoroughly  unhealthy  Eyes.  Get 
your  Stomach  straight  and  the  rest  follows. 
And  all  that's  French  for  a  liver  pill.  I'll  take 
sole  medical  charge  of  you  from  this  hour!  for 
you're  too  interesting  a  phenomenon  to  be  passed 
over." 

By  this  time  we  were  deep  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Blessington  lower  road  and  the  'rickshaw 
came  to  a  dead  stop  under  a  pine-clad,  over- 
hanging shale  cliff.  Instinctively  I  halted  too, 
giving  my  reason.  Heatherlegh  rapped  out  an 
oath. 

"Now,  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  spend  a  cold 
night  on  the  hillside  for  the  sake  of  a  Stomach- 
cum-^ra.\n-ctim-EyQ  illusion  .  .  .  Lord,  ha' 
mercy !    What's  that  ?  " 

There  was  a  muffled  report,  a  blinding  smother 
of  dust  just  in  front  of  us,  a  crack,  the  noise  of 
rent  boughs,  and  about  ten  yards  of  the  cliff-side 
—pines,  undergrowth,  and  all — slid  down  into 


632  Indian  Tales 

the  road  below,  completely  blocking  it  up.  The 
uprooted  trees  swayed  and  tottered  for  a  mo- 
ment like  drunken  giants  in  the  gloom,  and  then 
fell  prone  among  their  fellows  with  a  thunderous 
crash.  Our  two  horses  stood  motionless  and 
sweating  with  fear.  As  soon  as  the  rattle  of 
falling  earth  and  stone  had  subsided,  my  com- 
panion muttered: — "Man,  if  we'd  gone  forward 
we  should  have  been  ten  feet  deep  in  our  graves 
by  now.  '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and 
earth.'  .  .  .  Come  home,  Pansay,  and  thank 
God.     1  want  a  peg  badly." 

We  retraced  our  way  over  the  Church  Ridge, 
and  I  arrived  at  Dr.  Heatherlegh's  house  shortly 
after  midnight. 

His  attempts  toward  my  cure  corrimenced 
almost  immediately,  and  for  a  week  I  never  left 
his  sight.  Many  a  time  in  the  course  of  that 
week  did  1  bless  the  good-fortune  which  had 
thrown  me  in  contact  with  Simla's  best  and 
kindest  doctor.  Day  by  day  my  spirits  grew 
lighter  and  more  equable.  Day  by  day,  too,  I 
became  more  and  more  inclined  to  fall  in  with 
Heatherlegh's  "spectral  illusion"  theory,  im- 
plicating eyes,  brain,  and  stomach.  I  wrote  to 
Kitty,  telling  her  that  a  slight  sprain  caused  by  a 
fall  from  my  horse  kept  me  indoors  for  a  few 
days;  and  that  I  should  be  recovered  before  she 
had  time  to  regret  my  absence. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  6^3 

Heatherlegh's  treatment  was  simple  to  a  degree. 
It  consisted  of  liver  pills,  cold-water  baths,  and 
strong  exercise,  taken  in  the  dusk  or  at  early 
dawn — for,  as  he  sagely  observed: — "A  man 
with  a  sprained  ankle  doesn't  walk  a  dozen  miles 
a  day,  and  your  young  woman  might  be  wonder- 
ing if  she  saw  you." 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  much  exami- 
nation of  pupil  and  pulse,  and  strict  injunctions 
as  to  diet  and  pedestrianism,  Heatherlegh  dis- 
missed me  as  brusquely  as  he  had  taken  charge 
of  me.  Here  is  his  parting  benediction: — "  Man, 
I  certify  to  your  mental  cure,  and  that's  as  much 
as  to  say  I've  cured  most  of  your  bodily  ailments. 
Now,  get  your  traps  out  of  this  as  soon  as  you 
can;  and  be  off  to  make  love  to  Miss  Kitty." 

1  was  endeavoring  to  express  my  thanks  for 
his  kindness.     He  cut  me  short. 

"  Don't  think  !  did  this  because  I  like  vou.  I 
gather  that  you've  behaved  like  a  blackguard  all 
through.  But,  all  the  same,  you're  a  phenome- 
non, and  as  queer  a  phenomenon  as  you  are  a 
blackguard.  No!" — checking  me  a  second  time 
— "not  a  rupee  please.  Go  out  and  see  if  you 
can  find  the  eyes-brain-and-stomach  business 
again.  I'll  give  you  a  lakh  for  each  time  you 
see  it." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  the  Mannerings' 
drawing-room  with  Kitty — drunk  with  the  in- 


634  Indian  Tales 

toxication  of  present  happiness  and  the  fore- 
knowledge that  I  should  never  more  be  troubled 
with  Its  hideous  presence.  Strong  in  the  sense 
of  my  new-found  security,  1  proposed  a  ride 
at  once;  and,  by  preference,  a  canter  round 
Jakko. 

Never  had  I  felt  so  well,  so  overladen  with 
vitality  and  mere  animal  spirits,  as  1  did  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  30th  of  April,  Kitty  was  de- 
lighted at  the  change  in  my  appearance,  and 
complimented  me  on  it  in  her  delightfully  frank 
and  outspoken  manner.  We  left  the  Manner- 
ings'  house  together,  laughing  and  talking,  and 
cantered  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  as  of  old. 

1  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir 
and  there  make  my  assurance  doubly  sure.  The 
horses  did  their  best,  but  seemed  all  too  slow  to 
my  impatient  mind.  Kitty  was  astonished  at  my 
boisterousness.  "  Why,  Jack! "  she  cried  at  last, 
"you  are  behaving  like  a  child.  What  are  you 
doing  ?" 

We  were  just  below  the  Convent,  and  from 
sheer  wantonness  I  was  making  my  Waler 
plunge  and  curvet  across  the  road  as  I  tickled  it 
with  the  loop  of  my  riding-whip. 

"Doing?"  I  answered;  "nothing,  dear. 
That's  just  it.  If  you'd  been  doing  nothing 
for  a  week  except  lie  up,  you'd  be  as  riotous 
as  I. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  635 

"  ♦  Singing  and  murmuring  in  your  feastful  mirth, 
Joying  to  feel  yourself  alive  ; 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  Earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five.'  " 

My  quotation  was  hardly  out  of  my  lips  before 
we  had  rounded  the  corner  above  the  Convent; 
and  a  few  yards  further  on  could  see  across  to 
Sanjowlie.  In  the  centre  of  the  level  road  stood 
the  black  and  white  liveries,  the  yellow-paneled 
'rickshaw,  and  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington.  I  pulled 
up,  looked,  rubbed  my  eyes,  and,  I  believe,  must 
have  said  something.  The  next  thing  I  knew 
was  that  I  was  lying  face  downward  on  the 
road,  with  Kitty  kneeling  above  me  in  tears. 

"Has  it  gone,  child!"  1  gasped.  Kitty  only 
wept  more  bitterly. 

"Has  what  gone,  Jack  dear?  what  does  it  all 
mean  ?  There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere, 
Jack.  A  hideous  mistake."  Her  last  words 
brought  me  to  my  feet — mad — raving  for  the 
time  being. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere,"  I  re- 
peated, "a  hideous  mistake.  Come  and  look  at 
It." 

I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  dragged  Kitty 
by  the  wrist  along  the  road  up  to  where  It  stood, 
and  implored  her  for  pity's  sake  to  speak  to  It; 
to  tell  It  that  we  were  betrothed;  that  neither 
Death  nor  Hell  could  break  the  tie  between  us: 


536  Indian  Tales 

and  Kitty  only  knows  how  much  more  to  the 
same  effect.  Now  and  again  I  appealed  passion- 
ately to  the  Terror  in  the  'rickshaw  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  all  I  had  said,  and  to  release  me  from  a 
torture  that  was  killing  me.  As  1  talked  1  sup- 
pose I  must  have  told  Kitty  of  my  old  relations 
with  Mrs.  Wessington,  for  I  saw  her  listen  in- 
tently with  white  face  and  blazing  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Pansay,"  she  said,  "that's 
quite  enough.     Syce  ghora  /do." 

The  syces,  impassive  as  Orientals  always  are, 
had  come  up  with  the  recaptured  horses;  and  as 
Kitty  sprang  into  her  saddle  I  caught  hold  of  the 
bridle,  entreating  her  to  hear  me  out  and  for- 
give. My  answer  was  the  cut  of  her  riding- 
whip  across  my  face  from  mouth  to  eye,  and  a 
word  or  two  of  farewell  that  even  now  I  cannot 
write  down.  So  1  judged,  and  judged  rightly, 
that  Kitty  knew  all;  and  I  staggered  back  to  the 
side  of  the  'rickshaw.  My  face  was  cut  and 
bleeding,  and  the  blow  of  the  riding-whip  had 
raised  a  livid  blue  wheal  on  it.  1  had  no  self- 
respect.  Just  then,  Heatherlegh,  who  must  have 
been  following  Kitty  and  me  at  a  distance,  can- 
tered up. 

"  Doctor,"  I  said,  pointing  to  my  face,  "here's 
Miss  Mannering's  signature  to  my  order  of  dis- 
missal and  .  .  .  I'll  thank  you  for  that  lakh 
as  soon  as  convenient." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  637 

Heatherlegh's  face,  even  in  my  abject  misery, 
moved  me  to  laughter. 

''I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation" — he 
began.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  whispered.  "I've 
lost  my  life's  happiness  and  you'd  better  take  me 
home." 

As  1  spoke  the  'rickshaw  was  gone.  Then  I 
lost  all  knowledge  of  what  was  passing.  The 
crest  of  Jakko  seemed  to  heave  and  roll  like  the 
crest  of  a  cloud  and  fall  in  upon  me. 

Seven  days  later  (on  the  7th  of  May,  that  is  to 
say)  1  was  aware  that  1  was  lying  in  Heather- 
legh's room  as  weak  as  a  little  child.  Heather- 
legh  was  watching  me  intently  from  behind  the 
papers  on  his  writing-table.  His  first  words 
were  not  encouraging;  but  I  was  too  far  spent 
to  be  much  moved  by  them. 

"  Here's  Miss  Kitty  has  sent  back  your  letters. 
You  corresponded  a  good  deal,  you  young  peo- 
ple. Here's  a  packet  that  looks  like  a  ring,  and 
a  cheerful  sort  of  a  note  from  Mannering  Papa, 
which  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  reading  and  burn- 
ing.   The  old  gentleman's  not  pleased  with  you." 

"And  Kitty?"  I  asked,  dully. 

"Rather  more  drawn  than  her  father  from 
what  she  says.  By  the  same  token  you  must 
have  been  letting  out  any  number  of  queer  remi- 
niscences just  before  1  met  you.  'Says  that  a 
man  who  would  have  behaved  to  a  woman  as 


638  Indian  Tales 

you  did  to  Mrs.  Wessington  ought  to  kill  him- 
self out  of  sheer  pity  for  his  kind.  She's  a  hot- 
headed little  virago,  your  mash.  'Will  have  it 
too  that  you  were  suffering  from  D.  T.  when  that 
row  on  the  Jakko  road  turned  up.  'Says  she'll 
die  before  she  ever  speaks  to  you  again." 

I  groaned  and  turned  over  on  the  other  side. 

"Now  you've  got  your  choice,  my  friend. 
This  engagement  has  to  be  broken  off;  and  the 
Mannerings  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  you. 
Was  it  broken  through  D.  T.  or  epileptic  fits? 
Sorry  1  can't  offer  you  a  better  exchange  unless 
you'd  prefer  hereditary  insanity.  Say  the  word 
and  I'll  tell  'em  it's  fits.  All  Simla  knows  about 
that  scene  on  the  Ladies'  Mile.  Come!  I'll  give 
you  five  minutes  to  think  over  it." 

During  those  five  minutes  I  believe  that  I  ex- 
plored thoroughly  the  lowest  circles  of  the  In- 
ferno which  it  is  permitted  man  to  tread  on  earth. 
And  at  the  same  time  I  myself  was  watching 
myself  faltering  through  the  dark  labyrinths  of 
doubt,  misery,  and  utter  despair.  I  wondered,  as 
Heatherlegh  in  his  chair  might  have  wondered, 
which  dreadful  alternative  I  should  adopt.  Pres- 
ently I  heard  myself  answering  in  a  voice  that  I 
hardly  recognized, — 

"They're  confoundedly  particular  about  mo- 
rality in  these  parts.  Give  'em  fits,  Heatherlegh, 
and  my  love.    Now  let  me  sleep  a  bit  longer." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  639 

Then  my  two  selves  joined,  and  it  was  only  I 
(half  crazed,  devil-driven  I)  that  tossed  in  my 
bed,  tracing  step  by  step  the  history  of  the  past 
month. 

"But  I  am  in  Simla,"  I  kept  repeating  to  my- 
self. "1,  Jack  Pansay,  am  in  Simla,  and  there 
are  no  ghosts  here.  It's  unreasonable  of  that 
woman  to  pretend  there  are.  Why  couldn't 
Agnes  have  left  me  alone .?  1  never  did  her  any 
harm.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  me  as 
Agnes.  Only  I'd  never  have  come  back  on  pur- 
pose to  kill  her.  Why  can't  I  be  left  alone — left 
alone  and  happy  }  " 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  first  awoke:  and  the 
sun  was  low  in  the  sky  before  I  slept — slept  as 
the  tortured  criminal  sleeps  on  his  rack,  too  worn 
to  feel  further  pain. 

Next  day  I  could  not  leave  my  bed.  Heather- 
legh  told  me  in  the  morning  that  he  had  received 
an  answer  from  Mr.  Mannering,  and  that,  thanks 
to  his  (Heatherlegh's)  friendly  offices,  the  story 
of  my  affliction  had  traveled  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Simla,  where  I  was  on  all  sides 
much  pitied. 

"And  that's  rather  more  than  you  deserve,"  he 
concluded,  pleasantly,  "though  the  Lord  knows 
you've  been  going  through  a  pretty  severe  mill. 
Never  mind;  we'll  cure  you  yet,  you  perverse 
phenomenon." 


640  Indian  Tales 

I  declined  firmly  to  be  cured.  ','  You've  been 
much  too  good  to  me  already,  old  man,"  said  I; 
"but  1  don't  think  1  need  trouble  you  further." 

In  my  heart  I  knew  that  nothing  Heatherlegh 
could  do  would  lighten  the  burden  that  had  been 
laid  upon  me. 

With  that  knowledge  came  also  a  sense  of 
hopeless,  impotent  rebellion  against  the  unrea- 
sonableness of  it  all.  There  were  scores  of  men 
no  better  than  I  whose  punishments  had  at  least 
been  reserved  for  another  world;  and  1  felt  that 
it  was  bitterly,  cruelly  unfair  that  1  alone  should 
have  been  singled  out  for  so  hideous  a  fate.  This 
mood  would  in  time  give  place  to  another  where 
it  seemed  that  the  'rickshaw  and  1  were  the  only 
realities  in  a  world  of  shadows;  that  Kitty  was  a 
ghost;  that  Mannering,  Heatherlegh,  and  all  the 
other  men  and  women  I  knew  were  all  ghosts; 
and  the  great,  grey  hills  themselves  but  vain 
shadows  devised  to  torture  me.  From  mood  to 
mood  I  tossed  backward  and  forward  for  seven 
weary  days;  my  body  growing  daily  stronger 
and  stronger,  until  the  bedroom  looking-glass 
told  me  that  I  had  returned  to  everyday  life,  and 
was  as  other  men  once  more.  Curiously  enough 
my  face  showed  no  signs  of  the  struggle  I  had 
gone  through.  It  was  pale  indeed,  but  as  ex- 
pressionless and  commonplace  as  ever.  I  had 
expected  some  permanent  alteration — visible  evi- 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  641 

dence  of  the  disease  that  was  eating  me  away. 
I  found  nothing. 

On  the  15th  of  May  I  left  Heatherlegh's  house 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and  the  instinct 
of  the  bachelor  drove  me  to  the  Club.  There  I 
found  that  every  man  knew  my  story  as  told  by 
Heatherlegh,  and  was,  in  clumsy  fashion,  abnor- 
mally kind  and  attentive.  Nevertheless  I  recog- 
nized that  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life  I  should 
be  among  but  not  of  my  fellows;  and  I  envied 
very  bitterly  indeed  the  laughing  coolies  on  the 
Mall  below.  I  lunched  at  the  Club,  and  at  foui 
o'clock  wandered  aim.lessly  down  the  Mall  in  the 
vague  hope  of  meeting  Kitty.  Close  to  the 
Band-stand  the  black  and  white  liveries  joined 
me;  and  1  heard  Mrs,  Wessington's  old  appeal  at 
my  side.  I  had  been  expecting  this  ever  since  I 
came  out;  and  was  only  surprised  at  her  delay. 
The  phantom  'rickshaw  and  1  went  side  by  side 
along  the  Chota  Simla  road  in  silence.  Close  to 
the  bazar,  Kitty  and  a  man  on  horseback  over- 
took and  passed  us.  For  any  sign  she  gave  I 
might  have  been  a  dog  in  the  road.  She  did  not 
even  pay  me  the  compliment  of  quickening  her 
pace;  though  the  rainy  afternoon  had  served  for 
an  excuse. 

So  Kitty  and  her  companion,  and  I  and  my 
ghostly  Light-o'-Love,  crept  round  Jakko  in 
couples.     The  road  was  streaming  with  water: 


642  Indian   Tales 

the  pines  dripped  like  roof-pipes  on  the  rocks  be- 
low, and  the  air  was  full  of  fine,  driving  rain. 
Two  or  three  times  I  found  myself  saying  to  my- 
self almost  aloud:  "  I'm  Jack  Pansay  on  leave  at 
Simla — at  Simla!  Everyday,  ordinary  Simla.  1 
mustn't  forget  that — I  mustn't  forget  that."  Then 
1  would  try  to  recollect  some  of  the  gossip  I  had 
heard  at  the  Club:  the  prices  of  So-and-So's 
horses — anything,  in  fact,  that  related  to  the 
workaday  Anglo-Indian  world  I  knew  so  well. 
I  even  repeated  the  multiplication-table  rapidly  to 
myself,  to  make  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  taking 
leave  of  my  senses.  It  gave  me  much  comfort; 
and  must  have  prevented  my  hearing  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington  for  a  time. 

Once  more  1  wearily  climbed  the  Convent 
slope  and  entered  the  level  road.  Here  Kitty 
and  the  man  started  off  at  a  canter,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  Mrs.  Wessington.  "Agnes," 
said  I,  "will  you  put  back  your  hood  and  tell 
me  what  it  all  means.?"  The  hood  dropped 
noiselessly,  and  I  was  face  to  face  with  my 
dead  and  buried  mistress.  She  was  wearing 
the  dress  in  which  I  had  last  seen  her  alive; 
carried  the  same  tiny  handkerchief  in  her  right 
hand;  and  the  same  cardcase  in  her  left.  (A 
woman  eight  months  dead  with  a  cardcase!)  I 
had  to  pin  myself  down  to  the  multiplication- 
table,  and  to  set  both  hands  on  the  stone  parapet 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  643 

of  the  road,  to  assure  myself  that  that  at  leas^ 
was  real. 

"Agnes,"  I  repeated,  "for  pity's  sake  tell  me 
what  it  all  means."  Mrs.  Wessington  leaned 
forward,  with  that  odd,  quick  turn  of  the  head  I 
used  to  know  so  well,  and  spoke. 

If  my  story  had  not  already  so  madly  over- 
leaped the  bounds  of  all  human  belief  I  should 
apologize  to  you  now.  As  I  know  that  no  one 
—no,  not  even  Kitty,  for  whom  it  is  written  as 
some  sort  of  justification  of  my  conduct — will 
believe  me,  I  will  go  on.  Mrs.  Wessington 
spoke  and  I  walked  with  her  from  the  Sanjowlie 
road  to  the  turning  below  the  Commander-in- 
Chief's  house  as  I  might  walk  by  the  side  of  any 
living  woman's  'rickshaw,  deep  in  conversation. 
The  second  and  most  tormenting  of  my  moods 
of  sickness  had  suddenly  laid  hold  upon  me,  and 
like  the  Prince  in  Tennyson's  poem,  "I  seemed 
to  move  amid  a  world  of  ghosts."  There  had 
been  a  garden-party  at  the  Commander-in- 
Chief's,  and  we  two  joined  the  crowd  of  home- 
ward-bound folk.  As  1  saw  them  then  it  seemed 
that  they  were  the  shadows — impalpable,  fantas- 
tic shadows — that  divided  for  Mrs,  Wessington's 
'rickshaw  to  pass  through.  What  we  said  dur- 
ing the  course  of  that  weird  interview  I  cannot 
■ — indeed,  1  dare  not — tell.  Heatherlegh's  com- 
ment would  have  been  a  short  laugh  and  a  re- 


644  Indian  Tales 

mark  that  I  had  been  "  mashing  a  brain-eye-and- 
stomach  chimera."  It  was  a  ghastly  and  yet  in 
some  indefinable  way  a  marvelously  dear  experi- 
ence. Could  it  be  possible,  I  wondered,  that  I 
was  in  this  life  to  woo  a  second  time  the  woman 
I  had  killed  by  my  own  neglect  and  cruelty  } 

I  met  Kitty  on  the  homeward  road — a  shadow 
among  shadows. 

If  I  were  to  describe  all  the  incidents  of  the 
next  fortnight  in  their  order,  my  story  would 
never  come  to  an  end;  and  your  patience  would 
be  exhausted.  Morning  after  morning  and  even- 
ing after  evening  the  ghostly  'rickshaw  and  / 
used  to  wander  through  Simla  together.  Wher- 
ever I  went  there  the  four  black  and  white  liver- 
ies followed  me  and  bore  me  company  to  and 
from  my  hotel.  At  the  Theatre  I  found  them 
amid  the  crowd  of  yelWng  jJianipaiiies ;  outside 
the  Club  veranda,  after  a  long  evening  of  whist; 
at  the  Birthday  Ball,  waiting  patiently  for  my  re- 
appearance; and  in  broad  daylight  when  I  went 
calling.  Save  that  it  cast  no  shadow,  the  'rick- 
shaw was  in  every  respect  as  real  to  look  upon  as 
one  of  wood  and  iron.  More  than  once,  indeed, 
I  have  had  to  check  myself  from  warning  some 
hard-riding  friend  against  cantering  over  it. 
More  than  once  I  have  walked  down  the  Mall 
ieep  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Wessington  to 
he  unspeakable  amazement  of  the  passers-bv. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  645 

Before  I  had  been  out  and  about  a  week  I 
learned  that  the  "fit"  theory  had  been  discarded 
in  favor  of  insanity.  However,  I  made  no  change 
in  my  mode  of  life.  1  called,  rode,  and  dined  out 
as  freely  as  ever.  1  had  a  passion  for  the  society 
of  my  kind  which  1  had  never  felt  before;  I 
hungered  to  be  among  the  realities  of  life;  and 
at  the  same  time  I  felt  vaguely  unhappy  when  I 
had  been  separated  too  long  from  my  ghostly 
companion.  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
describe  my  varying  moods  from  the  15th  of 
May  up  to  to-day. 

The  presence  of  the  'rickshaw  filled  me  by 
turns  with  horror,  blind  fear,  a  dim  sort  of  pleas- 
ure, and  utter  despair.  I  dared  not  leave  Simla; 
and  I  knew  that  my  stay  there  was  killing  me. 
I  knew,  moreover,  that  it  was  my  destiny  to  die 
slowly  and  a  little  every  day.  My  only  anxiety 
was  to  get  the  penance  over  as  quietly  as  might 
be.  Alternately  I  hungered  for  a  sight  of  Kitty 
and  watched  her  outrageous  flirtations  with  my 
successor — to  speak  more  accurately,  my  succes- 
sors— with  amused  interest.  She  was  as  much 
out  of  my  life  as  1  was  out  of  hers.  By  day  I 
wandered  with  Mrs.  Wessington  almost  content. 
By  night  1  implored  Heaven  to  let  me  return  to 
the  world  as  1  used  to  know  it.  Above  all  these 
varying  moods  lay  the  sensation  of  dull,  numbing 
wonder  that  the  Seen  and  the  Unseen  should 


546  Indian  Tales 

mingle  so  strangely  on  this  earth  to  hound  one 
poor  soul  to  its  grave. 


August  27. — Heatherlegh  has  been  indefatiga- 
ble in  his  attendance  on  me;  and  only  yesterday 
told  me  that  1  ought  to  send  in  an  application  for 
sick  leave.  An  application  to  escape  the  com- 
pany of  a  phantom !  A  request  that  the  Govern- 
ment would  graciously  permit  me  to  get  rid  of 
five  ghosts  and  an  airy  'rickshaw  by  going  to 
England!  Heatherlegh's  proposition  moved  me 
to  almost  hysterical  laughter.  1  told  him  that  I 
should  await  the  end  quietly  at  Simla;  and  I  am 
sure  that  the  end  is  not  far  off.  Believe  me  that 
I  dread  its  advent  more  than  any  word  can  say; 
and  J  torture  myself  nightly  with  a  thousand 
speculations  as  to  the  manner  of  my  death. 

Shall  I  die  in  my  bed  decently  and  as  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman  should  die;  or,  in  one  last  walk 
on  the  Mall,  will  my  soul  be  wrenched  from  me 
to  take  its  place  forever  and  ever  by  the  side  of 
that  ghastly  phantasm  }  Shall  I  return  to  my  old 
lost  allegiance  in  the  next  world,  or  shall  1  meet 
Agnes  loathing  her  and  bound  to  her  side  through 
all  eternity  ?  Shall  we  two  hover  over  the  scene 
of  our  lives  till  the  end  of  Time  ?  As  the  day  of 
my  death  draws  nearer,  the  intense  horror  that 
all  living  flesh  feels  toward  escaped  spirits  from 


Tke  Rhantom  'Rickshaw  647 

beyond  the  grave  grows  more  and  more  power- 
ful. It  is  an  awful  thing  to  go  down  quick 
among  the  dead  with  scarcely  one-half  of  your 
life  completed.  It  is  a  thousand  times  more 
awful  to  wait  as  I  do  in  your  midst,  for  I  know 
not  what  unimaginable  terror.  Pity  me,  at  least 
on  the  score  of  my  "delusion,"  for  1  know  you 
will  never  believe  what  I  have  written  here.  Yet 
as  surely  as  ever  a  man  was  done  to  death  by  the 
Powers  of  Darkness  I  am  that  man. 

In  justice,  too,  pity  her.  For  as  surely  as  ever 
woman  was  killed  by  rnan,  I  killed  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington.  And  the  last  portion  of  my  punishment 
IS  even  now  upon  me. 


ON   THE   STRENGTH   OF  A 
LIKENESS 

If  your  mirror  be  broken,  look  into  still  water ;  but  have  a 
care  that  you  do  not  fall  in. — Hindu  Proverb. 

NEXT  to  a  requited  attachment,  one  of  the 
most  convenient  things  that  a  young  man 
can  carry  about  with  him  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career,  is  an  unrequited  attachment.  It  makes 
him  feel  important  and  business-Uke,  and  hlase, 
and  cynical;  and  whenever  he  has  a  touch  of  Hver, 
or  suffers  from  want  of  exercise,  ne  can  mourn 
over  his  lost  love,  and  be  very  happy  in  a  tender, 
twilight  fashion. 

Hannasyde's  affair  of  the  heart  had  been  a  god- 
send to  him.  It  was  four  years  old,  and  the  girl 
had  long  since  given  up  thinking  of  it.  She  had 
married  and  had  many  cares  of  her  own.  In  the 
beginning,  she  had  told  Hannasyde  that,  "while 
she  could  never  be  anything  more  than  a  sister 
to  him,  she  would  always  take  the  deepest  inter- 
est in  his  welfare."  This  startlingly  new  and 
original  remark  gave  Hannasyde  something  to 
think  over  for  two  years;  and  his  own  vanity 
filled  in  the  other  twenty-four  months.  Hanna- 
syde was  quite  different  from  Phil  Garron,  but, 
548 


On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness  64Q 

none  the  less,  had  several  points  in  common  with 
that  far  too  lucky  man. 

He  kept  his  unrequited  attachment  by  him  as 
men  keep  a  well-smoked  pipe — for  comfort's 
sake,  and  because  it  had  grown  dear  in  the 
using.  It  brought  him  happily  through  one 
Simla  season.  Hannasyde  was  not  lovely. 
There  was  a  crudity  in  his  manners,  and  a 
roughness  in  the  way  in  which  he  helped  a  lady 
on  to  her  horse,  that  did  not  attract  the  other  sex 
to  him.  Even  if  he  had  cast  about  for  their 
favor,  which  he  did  not.  He  kept  his  wounded 
heart  all  to  himself  for  a  while. 

Then  trouble  came  to  him.  All  who  go  to 
Simla  know  the  slope  from  the  Telegraph  to  the 
Public  Works  Office.  Hannasyde  was  loafmg  up 
the  hill,  one  September  morning  between  calling 
hours,  when  a  'rickshaw  came  down  in  a  hurry, 
and  in  the  'rickshaw  sat  the  living,  breathing 
image  of  the  girl  who  had  made  him  so  happily 
unhappy.  Hannasyde  leaned  against  the  railings 
and  gasped.  He  wanted  to  run  downhill  after 
the  'rickshaw,  but  that  was  impossible;  so  he 
went  forward  with  most  of  his  blood  in  his  tem- 
ples. It  was  impossible,  for  many  reasons,  that 
the  woman  in  the  'rickshaw  could  be  the  girl  he 
had  known.  She  was,  he  discovered  later,  tl.t 
wife  of  a  man  from  Dindigul,  or  Coimbatore,  or 
some  out-of-the-way  place,  and  she  had  come 


650  Indian  Tales 

up  to  Simla  early  in  the  season  for  the  good  of 
her  health.  She  was  going  back  to  Dindigul,  or 
wherever  it  was,  at  the  end  of  the  season;  and  in 
all  likelihood  would  never  return  to  Simla  again; 
her  proper  Hill-station  being  Ootacamund.  That 
night  Hannasyde,  raw  and  savage  from  the  rak- 
ing up  of  all  old  feelings,  took  counsel  with  him- 
self for  one  measured  hour.  What  he  decided 
upon  was  this;  and  you  must  decide  for  yourself 
how  much  genuine  affection  for  the  old  Love, 
and  how  much  a  very  natural  inclination  to  go 
abroad  and  enjoy  himself,  affected  the  decision. 
Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  would  never  in  all  human 
likelihood  cross  his  path  again.  So  whatever  he 
did  didn't  much  matter.  She  was  marvelously 
like  the  girl  who  "took  a  deep  interest"  and  the 
rest  of  the  formula.  All  things  considered,  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  and  for  a  little  time — only 
a  very  little  time — to  make  believe  that  he  was 
with  Alice  Chisane  again.  Every  one  is  more  or 
less  mad  on  one  point.  Hannasyde's  particular 
monomania  was  his  old  love,  Alice  Chisane. 

He  made  it  his  business  to  get  introduced  to 
Mrs.  Haggert,  and  the  introduction  prospered. 
He  also  made  it  his  business  to  see  as  much  as  he 
could  of  that  lady.  When  a  man  is  in  earnest  as 
to  interviews,  the  facilities  which  Simla  offers  are 
startling.     There  are  garden-parties,  and  tennis- 


On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness  651 

parties,  and  picnics,  and  luncheons  at  Annandale, 
and  rifle-matches,  and  dinners  and  balls;  besides 
rides  and  walks,  which  are  matters  of  private  ar- 
rangement. Hannasyde  had  started  with  the  in- 
tention of  seeing  a  likeness,  and  he  ended  by 
doing  much  more.  He  wanted  to  be  deceived, 
he  meant  to  be  deceived,  and  he  deceived  himself 
very  thoroughly.  Not  only  were  the  face  and 
figure  the  face  and  figure  of  Alice  Chisane,  but 
the  voice  and  lower  tones  were  exactly  the  same, 
and  so  were  the  turns  of  speech;  and  the  little 
mannerisms,  that  every  woman  has,  of  gait  and 
gesticulation,  were  absolutely  and  identically  the 
same.  The  turn  of  the  head  was  the  same;  the 
tired  look  in  the  eyes  at  the  end  of  a  long  walk 
was  the  same;  the  stoop-and-wrench  over  the 
saddle  to  hold  in  a  pulling  horse  was  the  same; 
and  once,  most  marvelous  of  all,  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert  singing  to  herself  in  the  next  room, 
while  Hannasyde  was  waiting  to  take  her  for  a 
ride,  hummed,  note  for  note,  with  a  throaty 
quiver  of  the  voice  in  the  second  line,  "  Poor 
Wandering  One!"  exactly  as  Alice  Chisane  had 
hummed  it  for  Hannasyde  in  the  dusk  of  an 
English  drawing-room.  In  the  actual  woman 
herself — in  the  soul  of  her — there  was  not  the 
least  likeness;  she  and  Alice  Chisane  being  cast 
in  different  moulds.  But  all  that  Hannasyde 
wanted  to  know  and  see  and  think  about,  was 


652  Indian  Tales 

this  maddening  and  perplexing  likeness  of  face 
and  voice  and  manner.  He  was  bent  on  making 
a  fool  of  himself  that  way;  and  he  was  in  no 
sort  disappointed. 

Open  and  obvious  devotion  from  any  sort  of 
man  is  always  pleasant  to  any  sort  of  woman; 
but  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  being  a  woman  of  the 
world,  could  make  nothing  of  Hannasyde"s  ad- 
miration. 

He  would  take  any  amount  of  trouble — he  was 
a  selfish  man  habitually — to  meet  and  forestall,  if 
possible,  her  wishes.  Anything  she  told  him  to 
do  was  law;  and  he  was,  there  could  be  nc 
doubting  it,  fond  of  her  company  so  long  as  sh*.' 
talked  to  him,  and  kept  on  talking  about  triviali- 
ties. But  when  she  launched  into  expression  of 
her  personal  views  and  her  wrongs,  those  small 
social  differences  that  make  the  spice  of  Simb 
life,  Hannasyde  was  neither  pleased  nor  inter  • 
ested.  He  didn't  want  to  know  anything  about 
Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  or  her  experiences  in  thf' 
past — she  had  traveled  nearly  all  over  the  world, 
and  could  talk  cleverly — he  wanted  the  likeness' 
of  Alice  Chisane  before  his  eyes  and  her  voice  in 
his  ears.  Anything  outside  that,  reminding  him 
of  another  personality,  jarred,  and  he  showed 
that  it  did. 

Under  the  new  Post  Office,  one  evening,  Mrs. 
Landys-Haggert  turned  on  him,  and  spoke  her 


On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness  653 

mind  shortly  and  without  warning.  "Mr. 
Hannasyde,"  said  she,  "  will  you  be  good  enough 
to  explain  why  you  have  appointed  yourself  my 
special  ca-valier  servente?  1  don't  understand  it. 
But  1  am  perfectly  certain,  somehow  or  other, 
that  you  don't  care  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world 
for  me."  This  seems  to  support,  by  the  way,  the 
theory  that  no  man  can  act  or  tell  lies  to  a  woman 
without  being  found  out.  Hannasyde  was  taken 
off  his  guard.  His  defence  never  was  a  strong 
one,  because  he  was  always  thinking  of  himself, 
and  he  blurted  out,  before  he  knew  what  he  was 
saying,  this  inexpedient  answer,  "  No  more  I  do." 

The  queerness  of  the  situation  and  the  reply, 
made  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  laugh.  Then  it  all 
came  out;  and  at  the  end  of  Hannasyde's  lucid 
explanation  Mrs.  Haggert  said,  with  the  least  lit- 
tle touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice,  "So  I'm  to  act  as 
the  lay-figure  for  you  to  hang  the  rags  of  your 
tattered  affections  on,  am  I  .^" 

Hannasyde  didn't  see  what  answer  was  re- 
quired, and  he  devoted  himself  generally  and 
vaguely  to  the  praise  of  Alice  Chisane,  which 
was  unsatisfactory.  Now  it  is  to  be  thoroughly 
made  clear  that  Mrs.  Haggert  had  not  the  shadow 
of  a  ghost  of  an  interest  in  Hannasyde.  Only 
.  .  .  only  no  woman  likes  being  made  love 
through  instead  of  to — specially  on  behalf  of  a 
musty  divinity  of  four  years'  standing. 


654  Indian  Tales 

Hannasyde  did  not  see  that  he  had  made  any 
very  particular  exhibition  of  himself.  He  was 
glad  to  find  a  sympathetic  soul  in  the  arid  wastes 
of  Simla. 

When  the  season  ended,  Hannasyde  went 
down  to  his  own  place  and  Mrs.  Haggert  to  hers. 
"  It  was  like  making  love  to  a  ghost,"  said  Han- 
nasyde to  himself,  "and  it  doesn't  matter;  and 
now  I'll  get  to  my  work."  But  he  found  himself 
thinking  steadily  of  the  Haggert-Chisane  ghost; 
and  he  could  not  be  certain  whether  it  was  Hag- 
gert or  Chisane  that  made  up  the  greater  part  of 
the  pretty  phantom. 


He  got  understanding  a  month  later. 

A  peculiar  point  of  this  peculiar  country  is  the 
way  in  which  a  heartless  Government  transfers 
men  from  one  end  of  the  Empire  to  the  other. 
You  can  never  be  sure  of  getting  rid  of  a  friend 
or  an  enemy  till  he  or  she  dies.  There  was  a 
case  once — but  that's  another  story. 

Haggert's  Department  ordered  him  up  from 
Dindigul  to  the  Frontier  at  two  days'  notice,  and 
he  went  through,  losing  money  at  every  step, 
from  Dindigul  to  his  station.  He  dropped  Mrs. 
Haggert  at  Lucknow,  to  stay  with  some  friends 
there,  to  take  part  in  a  big  ball  at  the  Chutter 
Munzil,  and  to  come  on  when  he  had  made  the 


On  the  Strength  of  a  Likeness  655 

new  home  a  little  comfortable.  Lucknow  was 
Hannasyde's  station,  and  Mrs.  Haggert  stayed  a 
week  there.  Hannasyde  went  to  meet  her.  As 
the  train  came  in,  he  discovered  what  he  had  been 
thinking  of  for  the  past  month.  The  unwisdom 
of  his  conduct  also  struck  him.  The  Lucknow 
week,  with  two  dances,  and  an  unlimited  quan- 
tity of  rides  together,  clinched  matters;  and 
Hannasyde  found  himself  pacing  this  circle  of 
thought: — He  adored  Alice  Chisane,  at  least  he 
had  adored  her.  And  he  admired  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert  because  she  was  like  Alice  Chisane. 
But  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  was  not  in  the  least 
like  Alice  Chisane,  being  a  thousand  times  more 
adorable.  No-w  Alice  Chisane  was  "the  bride  of 
another,"  and  so  was  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert,  and 
a  good  and  honest  wife  too.  Therefore  he,  Han- 
nasyde, was  .  .  .  here  he  called  himself 
several  hard  names,  and  wished  that  he  had  been 
wise  in  the  beginning. 

Whether  Mrs.  Landys-Haggert  saw  what  was 
going  on  in  his  mind,  she  alone  knows.  He 
seemed  to  take  an  unqualified  interest  in  every- 
thing connected  with  herself,  as  distinguished 
from  the  Alice-Chisane  likeness,  and  he  said  one 
or  two  things  which,  if  Alice  Chisane  had  been 
still  betrothed  to  him,  could  scarcely  have  been 
excused,  even  on  the  grounds  of  the  likeness. 
But  Mrs.  Haggert  turned  the  remarks  aside,  and 


65^ 


Indian  Tales 


spent  a  long  time  in  making  Hannasyde  see  what 
a  comfort  and  a  pleasure  she  had  been  to  him  be- 
cause of  her  strange  resemblance  to  his  old  love. 
Hannasyde  groaned  in  his  saddle  and  said,  "Yes, 
indeed,"  and  busied  himself  with  preparations 
for  her  departure  to  the  Frontier,  feeling  very 
small  and  miserable. 

The  last  day  of  her  stay  at  Lucknow  came,  and 
Hannasyde  saw  her  off  at  the  Railway  Station. 
She  was  very  grateful  for  his  kindness  and  the 
trouble  he  had  taken,  and  smiled  pleasantly  and 
sympathetically  as  one  who  knew  the  Alice- 
Chisane  reason  of  that  kindness.  And  Hannasyde 
abused  the  coolies  with  the  luggage,  and  hustled 
the  people  on  the  platform,  and  prayed  that  the 
roof  might  fall  in  and  slay  him. 

As  the  train  went  out  slowly,  Mrs.  Landys- 
Haggert  leaned  out  of  the  window  to  say  good- 
bye— "On  second  thoughts  au  revoir,  Mr.  Han- 
nasyde. I  go  Home  in  the  Spring,  and  perhaps  I 
may  meet  you  in  Town." 

Hannasyde  shook  hands,  and  said  very  ear- 
nestly and  adoringly — "  I  hope  to  Heaven  I  shall 
never  see  your  face  again!  " 

And  Mrs.  Haggert  understood. 


PRIVATE  LEAROYD'S  STORY 

And  he  told  a  tale. —  Chronicles  of  Gautama  Buddha. 

FAR  from  the  haunts  of  Company  Officers 
who  insist  upon  kit-inspections,  far  from 
keen-nosed  Sergeants  who  sniff  the  pipe  stuffed 
into  the  bedding-roll,  two  miles  from  the  Lumult 
of  the  barracks,  lies  the  Trap.  It  is  an  old  dry 
well,  shadowed  by  a  twisted  pipal  tree  and 
fenced  with  high  grass.  Here,  in  the  years  gone 
by,  did  Private  Ortheris  establish  his  depot  and 
menagerie  for  such  possessions,  dead  and  living, 
as  could  not  safely  be  introduced  to  the  barrack- 
room.  Here  were  gathered  Houdin  pullets,  and 
fox-terriers  of  undoubted  pedigree  and  more 
than  doubtful  ownership,  for  Ortheris  was  an  in- 
veterate poacher  and  preeminent  among  a  regi- 
ment of  neat-handed  dog-stealers. 

Never  again  will  the  long  lazy  evenings  return 
wherein  Ortheris,  whistling  softly,  moved  sur- 
geon-wise among  the  captives  of  his  craft  at  the 
bottom  of  the  well  ;  when  Learoyd  sat  in  the 
niche,  giving  sage  counsel  on  the  management  of 
"tykes,"  and  Mulvaney,  from  the  crook  of  the 
overhanging /)/^a/,  waved  his  enormous  boots  in 
657 


658  Indian  Tales 

benediction  above  our  heads,  flighting  us  with 
iales  of  Love  and  War,  and  strange  experiences 
of  cities  and  men. 

Ortheris — landed  at  last  in  the  "little  stuff 
bird-shop  "  for  which  your  soul  longed;  Learoyd 
— back  again  in  the  smoky,  stone-ribbed  North, 
amid  the  clang  of  the  Bradford  looms;  Mul- 
vaney — grizzled,  tender,  and  very  wise  Ulysses, 
sweltering  on  the  earthwork  of  a  Central  India 
line— judge  if  1  have  forgotten  old  days  in  the 
Trap! 

Orth'ris,  as  alius  thinks  he  knaws  more  than 
other  foaks,  said  she  wasn't  a  real  laady,  but 
noL:3ut  a  Hewrasian.  1  don't  gainsay  as  her  cul- 
ler was  a  bit  doosky  like.  But  she  was  a  laady. 
Why,  she  rode  iv  a  carriage,  an'  good  'osses,  too, 
an'  her  'air  was  that  oiled  as  you  could  see  your 
faice  in  it,  an'  she  wore  dimond  rings  an'  a  goold 
chain,  an'  silk  an'  satin  dresses  as  mun  'a'  cost  a 
deal,  for  it  isn't  a  cheap  shop  as  keeps  enough  o' 
one  pattern  to  fit  a  figure  like  hers.  Her  name 
was  Mrs.  DeSussa,  an' t'  waay  I  coom  to  be  ac- 
quainted wi'  her  was  along  of  our  Colonel's 
Laady's  dog  Rip. 

I've  seen  a  vast  o'  dogs,  but  Rip  was  t'  pret- 
tiest picter  of  a  cliver  fox-tarrier  'at  iver  I  set  eyes 
on.  He  could  do  owt  you  like  but  speeak,  an' t' 
Colonel's  Laady  set  more  store  by  him  than  if  he 


Private  Learoyd's  Story  659 

hed  been  a  Christian.  She  hed  bairns  of  her 
awn,  but  they  was  i'  England,  and  Rip  seemed 
*o  get  all  t'  coodlin'  and  pettin'  as  belonged  to  a 
bairn  by  good  right. 

But  Rip  were  a  bit  on  a  rover,  an'  hed  a  habit 
o'  breakin'  out  o'  barricks  like,  and  trottin'  round 
t'  plaice  as  if  he  were  t'  Cantonment  Magistrate 
coom  round  inspectin'.  The  Colonel  leathers  him 
once  or  twice,  but  Rip  didn't  care  an'  kept  on 
gooin'  his  rounds,  wi'  his  taail  a-waggin'  as  if 
he  were  flag-signallin'  to  t'  world  at  large  'at  he 
was  "gettin'  on  nicely,  thank  yo',  and  how's 
yo'sen.?"  An'  then  t'  Colonel,  as  was  noa  sort 
of  a  hand  wi'  a  dog,  tees  him  oop.  A  real  clip- 
per of  a  dog,  an'  it's  noa  wonder  yon  laady,  Mrs. 
D^eSussa,  should  tek  a  fancy  tiv  him.  Theer's 
one  o'  t'  Ten  Commandments  says  yo  maun't 
cuvvet  your  neebor's  ox  nor  his  jackass,  but  it 
doesn't  say  nowt  about  his  tarrier  dogs,  an'  hap- 
pen thot's  t'  reason  why  Mrs.  DeSussa  cuvveted 
Rip,  tho'  she  went  to  church  reg'lar  along  wi' 
her  husband  who  was  so  mich  darker  'at  if  he 
hedn't  such  a  good  coaat  tiv  his  back  yo'  might 
ha'  called  him  a  black  man  and  nut  tell  a  lee 
nawther.  They  said  he  addled  his  brass  i'  jute, 
an'  he'd  a  rare  lot  on  it. 

Well,  you  seen,  when  they  teed  Rip  up,  t'  poor 
awd  lad  didn't  enjoy  very  good  'elth.  So  t'  Colo- 
nel's Laady  sends   for  me  as  'ad  a    naame  for 


66o  fndian  Tales 

bein'  knowledgeable  about  a  aog,  an'  axes  what's 
ailin'  wi'  him. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "he's  getten  t'  mopes,  an' 
what  he  wants  is  his  hbbaty  an'  coompany  like 
t'  rest  on  us;  wal  happen  a  rat  o^  two  'ud  liven 
him  oop.  It's  low,  mum,"  says  1,  "is  rats,  but 
it's  t'  nature  of  a  dog;  an'  soa's  cuttin'  round  an' 
meetin'  another  dog  or  two  an'  passin'  t'  time  o' 
day,  an'  hevvin'  a  bit  of  a  turn-up  wi'  him  like  a 
Christian." 

So  she  says  her  dog  maunt  niver  fight  an'  noa 
Christians  iver  fought. 

"Then  what's  a  soldier  for?"  says  1;  an'  I  ex- 
plains to  her  t'  contrairy  qualities  of  a  dog,  'at, 
when  yo'  coom  to  think  on't,  is  one  o'  t'  curusest 
things  as  is.  For  they  larn  to  behave  theirsens 
like  gentlemen  born,  fit  for  t'  fost  o'  coompany — 
they  tell  me  t'  Widdy  herself  is  fond  of  a  good 
dog  and  knaws  one  when  she  sees  it  as  well  as 
onny  body:  then  on  t'  other  hand  a-tewin'  round 
after  cats  an'  gettin'  mixed  oop  i'  all  manners  o' 
blackguardly  street-rows,  an'  killin'  rats,  an' 
fightin'  like  divils. 

V  Colonel's  Laady  says: — "Well,  Learoyd,  I 
doan't  agree  wi'  you,  but  you're  right  in  a  way  o' 
speeakin',  an'  I  should  like  yo'  to  tek  Rip  out  a- 
walkin'  wi'  you  sometimes;  but  yo'  maun't  let 
him  fight,  nor  chase  cats,  nor  do  nowt  'orrid;" 
an'  them  was  her  very  wods. 


Private  Learoyd's  Story  661 

Soa  Rip  an'  me  gooes  out  a-walkin'  o'  evenin's, 
he  bein'  a  dog  as  did  credit  tiv  a  man,  an'  I 
catches  a  lot  0'  rats  an'  we  hed  a  bit  of  a  match 
on  in  an  awd  dry  swimmin'-bath  at  back  o'  t' 
cantonments,  an'  it  was  none  so  long  afore  he 
was  as  bright  as  a  button  again.  He  hed  a  way 
o'  flyin'  at  them  big  yaller  pariah  dogs  as  if  he 
was  a  harrow  offan  a  bow,  an'  though  his  weight 
were  nowt,  he  tuk  'em  so  suddint-hke  they  rolled 
over  like  skittles  in  a  halley,  an'  when  they  coot 
he  stretched  after  'em  as  if  he  were  rabbit-run- 
nin'.  Saame  with  cats  when  he  cud  get  t'  cat 
agaate  o'  runnin'. 

One  evenin',  him  an'  me  was  trespassin'  ovver 
a  compound  wall  after  one  of  them  mongooses 
'at  he'd  started,  an'  we  was  busy  grubbin'  round 
a  prickle-bush,  an'  when  we  looks  up  there  was 
Mrs.  DeSussa  wi'  a  parasel  ovver  her  shoulder,  a- 
watchin' us.  "  Oh  my!  "  she  sings  out;  "there's 
that  lovelee  dog!  Would  he  let  me  stroke  him, 
Mister  Soldier.?" 

"Ay,  he  would,  mum,"  «ez  1,  "for  he's  fond 
o'  laady's  coompany.  Coom  here,  Rip,  an'speeak 
to  this  kind  laady."  An'  Rip,  seein'  'at  t'  mon- 
goose hed  getten  clean  awaay,  cooms  up  like  t' 
gentleman  he  was,  nivver  a  hauporth  shy  or 
okkord. 

"Oh,  you  beautiful — you  prettee  dog!"  she 
says,  clippin'  an'  chantin'  her  speech  in  i  way 


662  Indian  Tales 

them  sooart  has  o' their  awn;  "I  would  like  a 
dog  like  you.  You  are  so  verree  lovelee — so 
awfullee  prettee,"  an'  all  thot  sort  o'  talk,  'at  a 
dog  o'  sense  mebbe  thinks  nowt  on,  tho'  he 
bides  it  by  reason  o'  his  breedin'. 

An'  thert  I  meks  him  joomp  ovver  my  swag^ 
ger-cane,  an'  shek  hands,  an'  beg,  an'  lie  dead, 
an"  a  lot  o'  them  tricks  as  laadies  teeaches  dogs, 
though  I  doan't  haud  with  it  mysen,  for  it's 
makin'  a  fool  o'  a  good  dog  to  do  such  like. 

An'  at  lung  length  it  cooms  out  'at  she'd  been 
thrawin'  sheep's  eyes,  as  t'  sayin'  is,  at  Rip  for 
many  a  day.  Yo'  see,  her  childer  was  grown 
up,  an'  she'd  nowt  mich  to  do,  an'  were  alius 
fond  of  a  dog.  Soa  she  axes  me  if  I'd  tek  some- 
thin'  to  dhrink.  An'  we  goes  into  t'  drawn-room 
wheer  her  'usband  was  a-settin'.  They  meks  a 
gurt  fuss  ovver  t'  dog  an'  I  has  a  bottle  o'  aale, 
an'  he  gave  me  a  handful  o"  cigars. 

Soa  I  coomed  away,  but  t'  awd  lass  sings  out 
— "Oh,  Mister  Soldier,  please  coom  again  and 
bring  that  prettee  dog." 

I  didn't  let  on  to  t"  Colonel's  Laady  about  Mrs. 
DeSussa,  and  Rip,  he  says  nowt  nawther;  an'  I 
gooes  again,  an'  ivry  time  there  was  a  good 
dhrink  an'  a  handful  o'  good  smooaks.  An'  I 
telled  t'  awd  lass  a  heeap  more  about  Rip  than 
I'd  ever  heeared;  how  he  tuk  t'  fost  prize  at 
Lunnon  dog-show  and  cost  thotty-three   pounds 


Private  Learoyd's  Story  663 

fower  shillin'  from  t'  man  as  bred  him;  'at  his 
own  brother  was  t'  propputty  o'  t'  Prince  o' 
Wailes,  an'  'at  he  had  a  pedigree  as  long  as  a 
Dook's.  An'  she  lapped  it  all  oop  an'  were  niver 
tired  o'  admirin'  him.  But  when  t'  awd  lass  took 
to  givin'  me  money  an'  1  seed  'at  she  were  get- 
tin'  fair  fond  about  c'  dog,  1  began  to  suspicion 
summat.  Onny  body  may  give  a  soldier  t'  price 
of  a  pint  in  a  friendly  way  an'  theer's  no  'arm 
done,  but  when  it  cooms  to  five  rupees  slipt  into 
your  hand,  sly  like,  why,  it's  what  t'  'lection- 
eerin'  fellows  calls  bribery  an'  corruption.  Spe- 
cially when  Mrs.  DeSussa  threwed  hints  how  t' 
cold  weather  would  soon  be  ovver  an'  she  was 
goin'  to  Munsooree  Pahr.r  an'  we  was  goin'  to 
Rawalpindi,  an'  she  would  niver  see  Rip  any 
more  onless  somebody  she  knowed  on  would  be 
kind  tiv  her. 

Soa  I  tells  Mulvaney  an'  Ortheris  all  t'  taale 
thro',  beginnin'  to  end. 

'*'Tis  larceny  that  wicked  ould  laady  manes," 
says  t'  Irishman,  "  'tis  felony  she  is  sejuicin'  ye 
into,  my  frind  Learoyd,  but  I'll  purtect  your  in- 
nocince.  I'll  save  ye  from  the  wicked  wiles  av 
that  wealthy  ould  woman,  an'  I'll  go  wid  ye  this 
evenin'  and  spake  to  her  the  wurrds  av  truth  an' 
honesty.  But  Jock,"  says  he,  waggin'  his  heead, 
"'twas  not  like  ye  to  kape  all  that  good  dhrink 
an'  thim  fine  cigars  to  yerself,  while  Orth'ris  here 


664  Indian   Tales 

an'  me  have  been  prowlin'  round  wid  throats  as 
dry  as  lime-kilns,  and  nothin'  to  smoke  but  Can- 
teen plug.  'Twas  a  dhirty  thrick  to  play  on  a 
comrade,  for  why  should  you,  Learoyd,  be  bal- 
ancin'  yourself  on  the  butt  av  a  satin  thair,  as  if 
Terence  Mulvaney  was  not  the  aquil  av  anybody 
who  thrades  in  jute!  " 

"  Let  alone  me,"  sticks  in  Orth'ris,  "  but  that's 
like  life.  Them  wot's  really  fitted  to  decorate 
society  get  no  show  while  a  blunderin'  York- 
shireman  like  you" — 

"Nay,"  says  1,  "  it's  none  o'  t'  blunderin'  York- 
shireman  she  wants;  it's  Rip.  He's  t'  gentle- 
man this  journey." 

Soa  t'  next  day,  Mulvaney  an'  Rip  an'  me  goes 
to  Mrs.  DeSussa's,  an' t'  Irishman  bein'  a  strainger 
she  wor  a  bit  shy  at  fost.  But  yo've  heeard  Mul- 
vaney talk,  an'  yo'  may  believe  as  he  fairly  be- 
witched t'  awd  lass  wal  she  let  out  'at  she 
wanted  to  tek  Rip  away  wi'  her  to  Munsooree 
Pahar.  Then  Mulvaney  changes  his  tune  an'  axes 
her  solemn-like  if  she'd  thought  o'  t'  conse- 
quences o'  gettin'  two  poor  but  honest  soldiers 
sent  t'  Andamning  Islands.  Mrs.  DeSussa  began 
to  cry,  so  Mulvaney  turns  round  oppen  t'  other 
tack  and  smooths  her  down,  allowin'  'at  Rip  ud 
be  a  vast  better  off  in  t'  Hills  than  down  i'  Ben- 
gal, and  'twas  a  pity  he  shouldn't  go  wheer  he 
was  so   well   beliked.     And  soa  he  went  on. 


Private  Learoyd's  Story  665 

backin'  an'  fillin'  an'  workin'  up  t'  awd  lass  wal 
she  fell  as  if  her  life  warn't  worth  nowt  if  she 
didn't  hev  t'  dog. 

Then  all  of  a  suddint  he  sa^'s: — "  But  ye  shall 
have  him,  marm,  for  I've  a  feelin'  heart,  not  like 
this  could-blooded  Yorkshireman;  but  'twill  cost 
ye  not  a  penny  less  than  three  hundher  rupees." 

"Don't  yo'  believe  him,  mum,"  says  I;  "t' 
Colonel's  Laady  wouldn't  tek  five  hundred  for 
him." 

"  Who  said  she  would  }"  says  Mulvaney ;  "  it's 
not  buyin'  him  I  mane,  but  for  the  sake  o'  this 
kind,  good  laady,  I'll  do  what  1  never  dreamt  to 
do  in  my  life.     I'll  stale  him!  " 

"Don't  say  steal,"  says  Mrs.  DeSussa;  "he 
shall  have  the  happiest  home.  Dogs  often  get 
lost,  you  know,  and  then  they  stray,  an'  he  likes 
me  and  I  like  him  as  I  niver  liked  a  dog  yet,  an'  I 
must  hev  him.  If  I  got  him  at  t'  last  minute  1 
could  carry  him  off  to  Munsooree  Pahar  and  no- 
body would  niver  knaw.  " 

Now  an'  again  Mulvaney  looked  acrost  at  me, 
an'  though  1  could  mak  nowt  o'  what  he  was 
after,  1  concluded  to  take  his  leead. 

"  Well,  mum,"  I  says,  "  I  never  thowt  to  coom 
down  to  dog-steealin',  but  if  my  comrade  sees 
how  it  could  be  done  to  oblige  a  laady  like  yo'- 
sen,  I'm  nut  t'  man  to  hod  back,  tho'  it's  a  bad 
business  I'm  thinkin',  an'  three  hundred  rupees  is 


666  Indian  Tales 

a  poor  set-off  again  t'  chance  of  them  Damning 
Islands  as  Mulvaney  tall<s  on." 

"I'll  mek  it  three  fifty,"  says  Mrs.  DeSussa; 
"  only  let  me  hev  t'  dog  !  " 

So  we  let  her  persuade  us,  an'  she  teks  Rip's 
m.easure  theer  an'  then,  an'  sent  to  Hamilton's  to 
order  a  silver  collar  again  t'  time  when  he  was  to 
be  her  awn,  which  was  to  be  t'  day  she  set  off 
for  Munsooree  Pahar. 

"Sitha,  Mulvaney,"  says  \,  when  we  was  out- 
side, "you're  niver  goin'  to  let  her  hev  Rip!  " 

"An'  would  ye  disappoint  a  poor  old  woman  ?  " 
says  he;  "she  shall  have  a  Rip." 

"  An'  wheer's  he  to  come  through  }"  says  I. 

"  Learoyd,  m.y  man."  he  sings  out,  "you're  a 
pretty  man  av  your  inches  an'  a  good  comrade, 
but  your  head  is  made  av  duff.  Isn't  our  friend 
Orth'ris  a  Taxidermist,  an'  a  rale  artist  wid  his 
nimble  white  fingers  ?  An'  what's  a  Taxidermist 
but  a  man  who  can  thrate  shkins  }  Do  ye  mind 
the  white  dog  that  belongs  to  the  Canteen  Sar- 
gint,  bad  cess  to  him — he  that's  lost  half  his  time 
an'  snarlin'  the  rest  ?  He  shall  be  lost  for  good 
now;  an'  do  ye  mind  that  he's  the  very  spit  in 
shape  an'  size  av  the  Colonel's,  barrin'  that  his 
tail  is  an  inch  too  long,  an'  he  has  none  av  the 
color  that  divarsifies  the  rale  Rip,  an'  his  timper 
is  that  av  his  masther  an'  worse.  But  fwhat  is 
an  inch  on  a  dog's  tail  ?    An'  fwhat  to  a  profes- 


Private  Learqyd's  Story  667 

sional  like  Orth'ris  is  a  few  ringstraked  shpots  av 
black,  brown,  an'  white?    Nothin'  at  all,  at  all." 

Then  we  meets  Orth'ris,  an'  that  Httle  man, 
bein'  sharp  as  a  needle,  seed  his  way  through  t' 
business  in  a  minute.  An'  he  went  to  work 
a-practicin'  'air-dyes  the  very  next  day,  beginnin' 
on  some  white  rabbits  he  had,  an'  then  he  drored 
all  Rip's  markin's  on  t'  back  of  a  white  Commis- 
sariat bullock,  so  as  to  get  his  'and  in  an'  be  sure 
of  his  colors;  shadin'  off  brown  into  black  as 
nateral  as  life.  If  Rip  ked  a  fault  it  was  too  mich 
markin',  but  it  was  straingely  reg'lar  an'  Orth'ris 
settled  himself  to  make  a  fost-rate  job  on  it  when 
he  got  baud  o'  t'  Canteen  Sargint's  dog.  Theer 
niver  was  sich  a  dog  as  thot  for  bad  temper,  an' 
It  did  nut  get  no  better  when  his  tail  hed  to  be 
fettled  an  inch  an'  a  half  shorter.  But  they  may 
talk  o'  theer  Royal  Academies  as  they  like.  7 
niver  seed  a  bit  0'  animal  paintin'  to  beat  t'  copy 
as  Orth'ris  made  of  Rip's  marks,  wal  t'  picter  it- 
self was  snarlin'  all  t'  time  an'  tryin'  to  get  at  Rip 
standin'  theer  to  be  copied  as  good  as  goold. 

Orth'ris  alius  hed  as  mich  conceit  on  himsen  as 
would  lift  a  balloon,  an'  he  wor  so  pleeased  wi'  his 
sham  Rip  he  wor  for  tekking  him  to  Mrs.  DeSussa 
before  she  went  away.  But  Mulvaney  an'  me 
stopped  thot,  knowin'  Orth'ris's  work,  though 
niver  so  cliver,  was  nobbut  skin-deep. 

An'  at  last  Mrs.  DeSussa  fixed  t'  day  for  startin' 


668  Indian  Tales 

to  Munsooree  Pahar.  We  was  to  tek  Rip  to  t* 
stayshun  i'  a  basket  an'  hand  him  ovver  just  when 
they  was  ready  to  start,  an'  then  she'd  give  us  t' 
brass — as  was  agreed  upon. 

An'  my  wod!  It  were  high  time  she  were  off, 
for  them  'air-dyes  upon  t'  cur's  back  took  a  vast 
of  paintin'  to  keep  t'  reet  culler,  tho'  Orth'ris  spent 
a  matter  o'  seven  rupees  six  annas  i'  t'  best  droog- 
gist  shops  i'  Calcutta. 

An'  t'  Canteen  Sargint  was  lookin'  for  'is  dog 
everywheer;  an',  wi'  bein'  tied  up,  t'  beast's  tim- 
per  got  waur  nor  ever. 

It  wor  i'  t'  evenin'  when  t'  train  started  thro' 
Howrah,  an'  we  'elped  Mrs.  DeSussa  wi'  about 
sixty  boxes,  an'  then  we  gave  her  t'  basket. 
Orth'ris,  for  pride  av  his  work,  axed  us  to  let 
him  coom  along  wi'  us,  an'  he  couldn't  help  liftin' 
t'  lid  an'  showin'  t'  cur  as  he  lay  coiled  oop. 

"Oh!  "  says  t' awd  lass;  "thebeautee!  How 
sweet  he  looks!  "  An'  just  then  t'  beauty  snarled 
an'  showed  his  teeth,  so  Mulvaney  shuts  down  t' 
lid  and  says:  "  Ye'll  be  careful,  marm,  whin  ye 
ttk  him  out.  He's  disaccustomed  to  traveling  by 
t'  railway,  an'  he'll  be  sure  to  want  his  rale  mis- 
tress an'  his  friend  Learoyd,  so  ye'll  make  allow- 
ance for  his  feelings  at  fost." 

She  would  do  all  thot  an'  more  for  the  dear, 
good  Rip,  an'  she  would  nut  oppen  t'  basket  till 
they  were  miles  away,  for  fear  anybody  should 


Private  Learoyd's  Story  669 

recognize  him,  an'  we  were  real  good  and  kind 
soldier-men,  we  were,  an'  she  honds  me  a  bundle 
o'  notes,  an'  then  cooms  up  a  few  of  her  rela- 
tions an'  friends  to  say  good-bye — not  more  than 
seventy-five  there  wasn't — an'  we  cuts  away. 

What  coom  to  t'  three  hundred  and  fifty  rupees  ? 
Thot's  what  I  can  scarcelins  tell  yo',  but  we 
melted  it — we  melted  it.  It  was  share  an'  share 
alike,  for  Mulvaney  said:  "if  Learoyd  got  hold 
of  Mrs.  DeSussa  first,  sure,  'twas  I  that  remim- 
bered  the  Sargint's  dog  just  in  the  nick  av  time, 
an'  Orth'ris  was  the  artist  av  janius  that  made  a 
work  av  art  out  av  that  ugly  piece  av  ill-nature. 
Yet,  by  way  av  a  thank-offerin'  that  I  was  not 
led  into  felony  by  that  wicked  ould  woman,  I'll 
send  a  thrifle  to  Father  Victor  for  the  poor  people 
he's  always  beggin'  for." 

But  me  an'  Orth'ris,  he  bein'  Cockney,  an'  I 
bein'  pretty  far  north,  did  nut  see  it  i'  t'  saame 
way.  We'd  getten  t'  brass,  an'  we  meaned  to 
keep  it.     An'  soa  we  did — for  a  short  time. 

Noa,  noa,  we  niver  heeard  a  wod  more  0'  t' 
awd  lass.  Our  rig'mint  went  to  Pindi,  an'  t' 
Canteen  Sargint  he  got  himself  another  tyke  in- 
steead  o'  t'  one  'at  got  lost  so  reg'lar,  an'  was  lost 
for  good  at  last. 


WRESSLEY  OF  THE  FOREIGN 
OFFICE 

I  closed  and  drew  for  my  Love's  sake. 

That  now  is  false  to  me, 
And  I  slew  the  Riever  of  Tarrant  Moss, 

And  set  Dumeny  free. 

And  ever  they  give  me  praise  and  gold, 

And  ever  I  moan  my  loss ; 
For  I  struck  the  blow  for  my  false  Love's  sake. 

And  not  for  the  men  of  the  Moss ! 

—  Tarrant  Moss. 

ONE  of  the  many  curses  of  our  life  in  India  is 
the  want  of  atmosphere  in  the  painter's 
sense.  There  are  no  half-tints  worth  noticing. 
Men  stand  out  all  crude  and  raw,  with  nothing  to 
tone  them  down,  and  nothing  to  scale  them 
against.  They  do  their  work,  and  grow  to  think 
that  there  is  nothing  but  their  work,  and  nothing 
like  their  work,  and  that  they  are  the  real  pivots 
on  which  the  Administration  turns.  Here  is  an 
instance  of  this  feeling.  A  half-caste  clerk  was 
ruling  forms  in  a  Pay  Office.  He  said  to  me, 
"  Do  you  know  what  would  happen  if  I  added 
or  took  away  one  single  line  on  this  sheet?'" 
670 


Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  671 

Then,  with  the  air  of  a  conspirator,  "  It  would 
disorganize  the  whole  of  the  Treasury  payments 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  Presidency  Circle! 
Think  of  that!" 

If  men  had  not  this  delusion  as  to  the  ultra- 
importance  of  their  own  particular  employments, 
I  suppose  that  they  would  sit  down  and  kill 
themselves.  But  their  weakness  is  wearisome, 
particularly  when  the  listener  knows  that  he  him- 
self commits  exactly  the  same  sin. 

Even  the  Secretariat  believes  that  it  does  good 
when  it  asks  an  over-driven  Executive  Officer  to 
take  a  census  of  wheat-weevils  through  a  district 
of  five  thousand  square  mileSo 

There  was  a  man  once  in  the  Foreign  Office — a 
man  who  had  grown  middle-aged  in  tho  Depart- 
ment, and  was  commonly  said,  by  irreverent 
juniors,  to  be  able  to  repeat  Aitchison's  Treaties 
and  Sunnuds  backward  in  his  sleep.  What  he 
did  with  his  stored  knowledge  only  the  Secretary 
knew;  and  he,  naturally,  would  not  publish  the 
news  abroad.  This  man's  name  was  Wressley, 
and  it  was  the  Shibboleth,  in  those  days,  to  say 
— "Wressley  knows  more  about  the  Central 
Indian  States  than  any  living  man."  If  you  did 
not  say  this,  you  were  considered  one  of  mean 
understanding. 

Nowadays,  the  man  who  says  that  he  knows 
the  ravel  of  the  inter-tribal  complications  across 


6/2  Indian  Tales 

the  Border  is  more  of  use;  but,  in  Wressley's 
time,  mucii  attention  was  paid  to  the  Central 
Indian  States.  They  were  called  "foci"  and 
"factors,"  and  all  manner  of  imposing  names. 

And  here  the  curse  of  Anglo-Indian  life  fell 
heavily.  When  Wressley  lifted  up  his  voice,  and 
spoke  about  such-and-such  a  succession  to  such- 
and-such  a  throne,  the  Foreign  Office  were  silent, 
and  Heads  of  Departments  repeated  the  last  two 
or  three  words  of  Wressley's  sentences,  and 
tacked  "yes,  yes,"  on  to  them,  and  knew  that 
they  were  assisting  the  Empire  to  grapple  with 
serious  political  contingencies.  In  most  big  un- 
dertakings, one  or  two  men  do  the  work  while 
the  rest  sit  near  and  talk  till  the  ripe  decorations 
begin  to  fall. 

Wressley  was  the  working-member  of  the 
Foreign  Office  firm,  and,  to  keep  him  up  to  his 
duties  when  he  showed  signs  of  flagging,  he 
was  made  much  of  by  his  superiors  and  told 
what  a  fine  fellow  he  was.  He  did  not  require 
coaxing,  because  he  was  of  tough  build,  but 
what  he  received  confirmed  him  in  the  belief 
that  there  was  no  one  quite  so  absolutely  and 
imperatively  necessary  to  the  stability  of  India  as 
Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office.  There  might 
be  other  good  men,  but  the  known,  honored  and 
trusted  man  among  men  was  Wressley  of  the 
Foreign  Office.     We  had  a  Viceroy  in  those  days 


Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  673 

who  knew  exactly  when  to  "gentle"  a  fractious 
big  man,  and  to  hearten-up  a  collar-galled  little 
one,  and  so  keep  all  his  team  level.  He  con- 
veyed to  Wressley  the  impression  which  1  have 
just  set  down;  and  even  tough  men  are  apt  to 
be  disorganized  by  a  Viceroy's  praise.  There 
was  a  case  once — but  that  is  another  story. 

All  India  knew  Wressley's  name  and  office — it 
was  in  Thacker  and  Spink's  Directory — but  who 
he  was  personally,  or  what  he  did,  or  what  his 
special  merits  were,  not  fifty  men  knew  or  cared. 
His  work  filled  all  his  time,  and  he  found  no 
leisure  to  cultivate  acquaintances  beyond  those 
of  dead  Rajput  chiefs  with  Ahi'r  blots  in  their 
scutcheons.  Wressley  would  have  made  a  very 
good  Clerk  in  the  Herald's  College  had  he  not 
been  a  Bengal  Civilian. 

Upon  a  day,  between  office  and  office,  great 
trouble  came  to  Wressley — overwhelmed  him, 
knocked  him  down,  and  left  him  gasping  as 
though  he  had  been  a  little  schoolboy.  With- 
out reason,  against  prudence,  and  at  a  moment's 
notice,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  frivolous,  golden- 
haired  girl  who  used  to  tear  about  Simla  Mall  on 
a  high,  rough  waler,  with  a  blue  velvet  jockey- 
cap  crammed  over  her  eyes.  Her  name  was 
Venner — Tillie  Venner — and  she  was  delightful. 
She  took  Wressley's  heart  at  a  hand-gallop,  and 
Wressley  found  that  it  was  not  good  for  man 


674  Indian  Tales 

to  live  alone;  even  with  half  the  Foreign  Office 
Records  in  his  presses. 

Then  Simla  laughed,  for  Wressley  in  love  was 
slightly  ridiculous.  He  did  his  best  to  interest 
the  girl  in  himself — that  is  to  say,  his  work— and 
she,  after  the  manner  of  women,  did  her  best  to 
appear  interested  in  what,  behind  his  back,  she 
called  "Mr.  W'essley's  Wajahs";  for  she  lisped 
very  prettily.  She  did  not  understand  one  little 
thing  about  them,  but  she  acted  as  if  she  did. 
Men  have  married  on  that  sort  of  error  before 
now. 

Providence,  however,  had  care  of  Wressley. 
He  was  immensely  struck  with  Miss  Venner's 
intelligence.  He  would  have  been  more  im- 
pressed had  he  heard  her  private  and  confidential 
accounts  of  his  calls.  He  held  peculiar  notions 
as  to  the  wooing  of  girls.  He  said  that  the  best 
work  of  a  man's  career  should  be  laid  reverently 
at  their  feet.  Ruskin  writes  something  like  this 
somewhere,  I  think;  but  in  ordinary  life  a  few 
kisses  are  better  and  save  time. 

About  a  month  after  he  had  lost  his  heart  to 
Miss  Venner,  and  had  been  doing  his  work  vilely 
in  consequence,  the  first  idea  of  his  Native  Rule 
in  Central  India  struck  Wressley  and  filled  him 
with  joy.  It  was,  as  he  sketched  it,  a  great  thing 
— the  work  of  his  life — a  really  comprehensive 
survey  of  a  most  fascinating  subject — to  be  writ- 


Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  67^ 

ten  with  all  the  special  and  laboriously  acquired 
knowledge  of  Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office — a 
gift  fit  for  an  Empress. 

He  told  Miss  Venner  that  he  was  going  to  take 
leave,  and  hoped,  on  his  return,  to  bring  her  a 
present  worthy  of  her  acceptance.  Would  she 
wait }  Certainly  she  would.  Wressley  drew 
seventeen  hundred  rupees  a  month.  She  would 
wait  a  year  for  that.  Her  Mamma  would  help 
her  to  wait. 

So  Wressley  took  one  year's  leave  and  all  the 
available  documents,  about  a  truck-load,  that  he 
could  lay  hands  on,  and  went  down  to  Central 
India  with  his  notion  hot  in  his  head.  He  began 
his  book  in  the  land  he  was  writing  of.  Too 
much  official  correspondence  had  made  him  a 
frigid  workman,  and  he  must  have  guessed  that 
he  needed  the  white  light  of  local  color  on  his 
palette.  This  is  a  dangerous  paint  for  amateurs 
to  play  with. 

Heavens,  how  that  man  worked!  He  caught 
his  Rajahs,  analyzed  his  Rajahs,  and  traced  them 
up  into  the  mists  of  Time  and  beyond,  with  their 
queens  and  their  concubines.  He  dated  and  cross- 
dated,  pedigreed  and  triple-pedigreed,  compared, 
noted,  connoted,  wove,  strung,  sorted,  selected, 
inferred,  calendared  and  counter-calendared  for 
ten  hours  a  day.  And,  because  this  sudden  and 
new  light  of  Love  was  upon  him,  he  turned  those 


6/6  Indian  Tales 

dry  bones  of  history  and  dirty  records  of  mis- 
deeds into  tilings  to  weep  or  to  laugli  over  as  lie 
pleased.  His  heart  and  soul  were  at  the  end  of 
his  pen,  and  they  got  into  the  ink.  He  was 
dowered  with  sympathy,  insight,  humor,  and 
style  for  two  hundred  and  thirty  days  and 
nights;  and  his  book  was  a  Book.  He  had  his 
vast  special  knowledge  with  him,  so  to  speak; 
but  the  spirit,  the  woven-in  human  Touch,  the 
poetry  and  the  power  of  the  output,  were  be- 
yond all  special  knowledge.  But  1  doubt  whether 
he  knew  the  gift  that  was  in  him  then,  and  thus 
he  may  have  lost  some  happiness.  He  was  toil- 
ing for  Tillie  Venner,  not  for  himself.  Men  often 
do  their  best  work  blind,  for  some  one  else's 
sake. 

Also,  though  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
story,  in  India  where  every  one  knows  every  one 
else,  you  can  watch  men  being  driven,  by  the 
women  who  govern  them,  out  of  the  rank-and- 
file  and  sent  to  take  up  points  alone.  A  good 
man,  once  started,  goes  forward;  but  an  average 
man,  so  soon  as  the  woman  loses  interest  in  his 
success  as  a  tribute  to  her  power,  comes  back  to 
the  battalion  and  is  no  more  heard  of. 

Wressley  bore  the  first  copy  of  his  book  to 
Simla,  and,  blushing  and  stammering,  presented 
it  to  Miss  Venner.  She  read  a  little  of  it.  I  give 
her  review  verbatim — "Oh  your  book.?    It's  all 


Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  677 

about  those  howwid  Wajahs.     I  didn't  under- 
stand it." 


Wressley  of  the  Foreign  Office  was  broken, 
smashed, — I  am  not  exaggerating — by  this  one 
frivolous  little  girl.  All  that  he  could  say  feebly 
was — "But — but  it's  my  magnum  opus!  The 
work  of  my  life."  Miss  Venner  did  not  know 
what  magnum  opus  meant;  but  she  knew  that 
Captain  Kerrington  had  won  three  races  at  the 
last  Gymkhana.  Wressley  didn't  press  her  to 
wait  for  him  any  longer.  He  had  sense  enough 
for  that. 

Then  came  the  reaction  after  the  year's  strain, 
and  Wressley  went  back  to  the  Foreign  Office  and 
his  "  Wajahs,"  a  compiling,  gazetteering,  report- 
writing  hack,  who  would  have  been  dear  at  three 
hundred  rupees  a  month.  He  abided  by  Miss  Ven- 
ner's  review.  Which  proves  that  the  inspiration 
in  the  book  was  purely  temporary  and  uncon- 
nected with  himself.  Nevertheless,  he  had  nc 
right  to  sink,  in  a  hill-tarn,  five  packing-cases, 
brought  up  at  enormous  expense  from  Bombay, 
of  the  best  book  of  Indian  history  ever  written. 

When  he  sold  off  before  retiring,  some  years 
later,  I  was  turning  over  his  shelves,  and  came 
across  the  only  existing  copy  of  Native  Rule  in 
Central  India — the  copy  that  Miss  Venner  could 


678  Indian   Tales 

not  understand.  I  read  it,  sitting  on  his  mule- 
trunks,  as  long  as  the  hght  lasted,  and  offered 
him  his  own  price  for  it.  He  looked  over  my 
shoulder  for  a  few  pages  and  said  to  himself 
drearily  — 

"Now,  how  in  the  world  did  I  come  to  write 
such  damned  good  stuff  as  that.^" 

Then  to  me  — 

"Take  it  and  keep  it.  Write  one  of  your 
penny-farthing  yarns  about  its  birth.  Perhaps — 
perhaps — the  whole  business  may  have  been  or- 
dained to  that  end." 

Which,  knowing  what  Wressley  of  the  For- 
eign Oifice  was  once,  struck  me  as  about  the  bit- 
terest thing  that  I  had  ever  heard  a  man  say  of 
his  own  work. 


THE  SOLID  MULDOON 

Did  ye  see  John  Malone,  wid  his  shinin',  brand-new  hat  ? 

Did  ye  see  how  he  walked  like  a  grand  aristocrat  ? 

There  was  flags  an'  banners  wavin'  high,  an'  dhress  and  shtyle 

were  shown, 
But  the  best  av  all  the  company  was  Misther  John  Malone. 

John  Malone. 

THERE  had  been  a  royal  dog-fight  in  the  ravine 
at  the  back  of  the  rifle-butts,  between  Lea- 
royd's  Jock  and  Ortheris's  Blue  /?o/— both  mon- 
grel Rampur  hounds,  chiefly  ribs  and  teeth.  It 
lasted  for  twenty  happy,  howling  minutes,  and 
then  Blue  Rot  collapsed  and  Ortheris  paid  Learoyd 
three  rupees,  and  we  were  all  very  thirsty.  A 
dog-fight  is  a  most  heating  entertainment,  quite 
apart  from  the  shouting,  because  Rampurs  fight 
over  a  couple  of  acres  of  ground.  Later,  when 
the  sound  of  belt-badges  clicking  against  the 
necks  of  beer-bottles  had  died  away,  conver- 
sation drifted  from  dog  to  man-fights  of  all  kinds. 
Humans  resemble  red-deer  in  some  respects. 
Any  talk  of  fighting  seems  to  wake  up  a  sort  of 
imp  in  their  breasts,  and  they  bell  one  to  the 
other,  exactly  like  challenging  bucks.  This  is 
noticeable  even  in  men  who  consider  themselves 
679 


68o  Indian  Tales 

superior  to  Privates  of  the  Line:  it  shows  the  Re- 
fining Influence  of  Civilization  and  the  March  of 
Progress. 

Tale  provoked  tale,  and  each  tale  more  beer. 
Even  dreamy  Learoyd's  eyes  began  to  brighten, 
and  he  unburdened  himself  of  a  long  history  in 
which  a  trip  to  Malham  Cove,  a  girl  at  Pateley 
Brigg,  a  ganger,  himself  and  a  pair  of  clogs  were 
mixed  in  drawling  tangle. 

"An'  so  Ah  coot's  yead  oppen  from  t'  chin  to 
t'  hair,  an'  he  was  abed  for  t'  matter  o'  a  month,'" 
concluded  Learoyd,  pensively. 

Mulvaney  came  out  of  a  revery — he  was  lying 
down — and  flourished  his  heels  in  the  air. 
"You're  a  man,  Learoyd,"  said  he,  critically, 
"but  you've  only  fought  wid  men,  an'  that's  an 
ivry-day  expayrience;  but  I've  stud  up  to  a  ghost, 
an'  that  was  wo/ an  ivry-day  expayrience." 

"  No  ?"  said  Ortheris,  throwing  a  cork  at  him. 
"You  git  up  an'  address  the  'ouse — you  an'  yer 
expayriences.     is  it  a  bigger  one  nor  usual  ?" 

"  'Twas  the  livin'  trut'!  "  answered  Mulvaney, 
stretching  out  a  huge  arm  and  catching  Ortheris 
by  the  collar.  "Now  where  are  ye,  me  son? 
Will  ye  take  the  wurrud  av  the  Lorrd  out  av  my 
mouth  another  time  ?  "  He  shook  him  to  empha- 
size the  question. 

"No,  somethin'  else,  though,"  said  Ortheris, 
making  a  dash  at  Mulvaney's  pine,  capturing  it 


The  Solid  Muldoon  68 1 

and  holding  it  at  arm's  length;  "1*11  chuck  it 
acrost  the  ditch  if  you  don't  let  me  go!  " 

"  You  maraudin'  hathen!  'Tis  the  only  cutty  I 
iver  loved.  Handle  her  tinder  or  I'll  chuck  you 
acrost  the  nullah.  If  that  poipe  was  bruk — Ah! 
Give  her  back  to  me,  sorr!  " 

Ortheris  had  passed  the  treasure  to  my  hand. 
It  was  an  absolutely  perfect  clay,  as  shmy  as  the 
black  ball  at  Pool.  I  took  it  reverently,  but  I  was 
firm. 

"Will  you  tell  us  about  the  ghost-fight  if  I 
do  ?"  I  said. 

"is  ut  the  shtory  that's  troublin'  you?  Av 
course  1  will.  I  mint  to  all  along.  I  was  only 
gettin'  at  ut  my  own  way,  as  Popp  Doggie  said 
whin  they  found  him  thrying  to  ram  a  cartridge 
down  the  muzzle.     Orth'ris,  fall  away !  " 

He  released  the  little  Londoner,  took  back  his 
pipe,  filled  it,  and  his  eyes  twinkled.  He  has  th? 
most  eloquent  eyes  of  any  one  that  I  know. 

"Did  I  iver  tell  you,"  he  began,  "that  I  was 
wanst  the  divil  of  a  man  ?" 

"You  did,"  said  Learoyd,  with  a  childish 
gravity  that  made  Ortheris  yell  with  laughter,  for 
Mulvaney  was  always  impressing  upon  us  his 
great  merits  in  the  old  days. 

"Did  I  iver  tell  you,"  Mulvaney  continued, 
calmly,  "that  I  was  wanst  more  av  a  divil  than  I 
am  now  ?" 


682  Indian  Tales 

"' Mer — ria!  You  don't  mean  it?"  said  Or- 
theris. 

"Whin  I  was  Corp'ril — I  was  rejuced  afther- 
ward — but,  as  I  say,  whin  I  was  Corp'ril,  I  was  a 
divil  of  a  man." 

He  was  silent  for  nearly  a  minute,  while  his 
mind  rummaged  among  old  memories  and  his 
eye  glowed.  He  bit  upon  the  pipe-stem  and 
charged  into  his  tale. 

"Eyah!  They  was  great  times.  I'm  ould 
now;  me  hide's  wore  otT  in  patches;  sinthrygo 
has  disconceited  me,  an'  I'm  a  married  man  tu. 
But  I've  had  my  day — I've  had  my  day,  an' 
nothin'  can  take  away  the  taste  av  that!  Oh  my 
time  past,  whin  I  put  me  fut  through  ivry  livin* 
wan  av  the  Tin  Commandmints  between  Rev- 
elly  and  Lights  Out,  blew  the  froth  off  a  pewter, 
wiped  me  moustache  wid  the  back  av  me  hand, 
an'  slept  on  ut  all  as  quiet  as  a  little  child!  But 
ut's  over — ut's  over,  an'  'twill  niver  come  back 
to  me;  not  though  I  prayed  for  a  week  av  Sun- 
days. Was  there  any  wan  in  the  Ould  Rig'mint 
to  touch  Corp'ril  Terence  Mulvaney  whin  that 
same  was  turned  out  for  sedukshin  ?  I  niver  met 
him.  Ivry  woman  that  was  not  a  witch  was 
worth  the  runnin'  afther  in  those  days,  an'  ivry 
man  was  my  dearest  frind  or — I  had  stripped  to 
him  an'  we  knew  which  was  the  betther  av  the  tu. 

"  Whin  I  was  Corp'ril  I  wud  not  ha'  changed 


The  Solid  Muldoon  683 

wid  the  Colonel — no,  nor  yet  the  Commandher- 
in-Chief.  1  wud  be  a  Sargint.  There  was 
nothin'  I  wud  not  be!  Mother  av  Hivin,  look 
at  me!     Fwhat  am  I  noiv ? 

"We  was  quartered  in  a  big  cantonmint — 'tis 
no  manner  av  use  namin'  names,  for  ut  might 
give  the  barricks  disrepitation — an'  I  was  the 
Imperor  av  the  Earth  to  my  own  mind,  an'  wan 
or  tu  women  thought  the  same.  Small  blame  to 
thim.  Afther  we  had  Iain  there  a  year,  Bragin, 
the  Color  Sargint  av  E  Comp'ny,  wint  an'  took  a 
wife  that  was  lady's  maid  to  some  big  lady  in 
the  Station.  She's  dead  now  is  Annie  Bragin — 
died  in  child-bed  at  Kirpa  Tal,  or  ut  may  ha'  been 
Almorah — seven — nine  years  gone,  an'  Bragin  he 
married  agin.  But  she  was  a  pretty  woman 
whin  Bragin  inthrojuced  her  to  cantonmint  so- 
ciety. She  had  eyes  like  the  brown  av  a  butther- 
fly's  wing  whin  the  sun  catches  ut,  an'  a  waist 
no  thicker  than  my  arm,  an'  a  little  sof  button  av 
a  mouth  I  would  ha'  gone  through  all  Asia 
bristlin'  wid  bay'nits  to  get  the  kiss  av.  An'  her 
hair  was  as  long  as  the  tail  av  the  Colonel's 
charger — forgive  me  mentionin'  that  blunderin' 
baste  in  the  same  mouthful  with  Annie  Bragin — 
but  'twas  all  shpun  gold,  an'  time  was  when  ut 
was  more  than  di'monds  to  me.  There  was 
niver  pretty  woman  yet,  an'  I've  had  thruck  wid 
a  few,  cud  open  the  door  to  Annie  Bragin. 


684  Indian  Tales 

"Twas  in  the  Cath'Iic  Chapel  I  saw  her  first, 
me  oi  rolling  round  as  usual  to  see  fwhat  was  to 
be  seen.  '  You're  too  good  for  Bragin,  my  love,' 
thinks  I  to  mesilf,  '  but  that's  a  mistake  I  can  put 
straight,  or  my  name  is  not  Terence  Mulvaney.' 

"Now  take  my  wurrd  for  ut,  you  Orth'ris 
there  an'  Learoyd,  an'  kape  out  av  the  Married 
Quarters — as  I  did  not.  No  good  iver  comes  av 
ut,  an'  there's  always  the  chance  av  your  bein' 
found  wid  your  face  in  the  dirt,  a  long  picket  in 
the  back  av  your  head,  an'  your  hands  playing 
the  fifes  on  the  tread  av  another  man's  doorstep. 
'Twas  so  we  found  O'Hara,  he  that  Rafferty 
killed  six  years  gone,  when  he  wint  to  his  death 
wid  his  hair  oiled,  whistlin'  Larry  O Rourke  be- 
tune  his  teeth.  Kape  out  av  the  Married  Quarters, 
I  say,  as  I  did  not.  'Tis  onwholesim,  'tis  danger- 
ous, an'  'tis  ivrything  else  that's  bad,  but — O  my 
sowl,  'tis  swate  while  ut  lasts! 

"  I  was  always  hangin'  about  there  whin  I  was 
off  duty  an'  Bragin  wasn't,  but  niver  a  sweet 
word  beyon'  ordinar'  did  I  get  from  Annie  Bragin. 
''Tis  the  pervarsity  av  the  sect,'  sez  I  to  mesilf, 
an'  gave  my  cap  another  cock  on  my  head  an' 
straightened  my  back — 'twas  the  back  av  a 
Dhrum  Major  in  those  days — an'  wint  off  as  tho' 
I  did  not  care,  wid  all  the  women  in  the  Married 
Quarters  laughin'.  I  was  pershuaded — most 
bhoys  a''-e  I'm  thinkin' — that  no  women  born  av 


The  Solid  Muldoon  685 

woman  cud  stand  against  me  av  I  hild  up  my  lit- 
tle finger.  1  had  reason  fer  thinkin'  that  way — 
till  I  met  Annie  Bragin. 

"Time  an'  agin  whin  I  was  blandandherin'  in 
the  dusk  a  man  wud  go  past  me  as  quiet  as  a  cat. 
'That's  quare,'  thinks  I,  '  for  I  am,  or  1  should  be, 
the  only  man  in  these  parts.  Now  what  divil- 
ment  can  Annie  be  up  to  }'  Thin  I  called  myself 
a  blayguard  for  thinkin'  such  things;  but  I 
thought  thim  all  the  same.  An'  that,  mark  you, 
is  the  way  av  a  man. 

"Wan  evenin'  I  said: — 'Mrs.  Bragin,  manin' 
no  disrespect  to  you,  who  is  that  Corp'ril  man' 
— I  had  seen  the  stripes  though  I  cud  niver  get 
sight  av  his  face — '  who  is  that  Corp'ril  man  that 
comes  in  always  whin  I'm  goin'  away  ?' 

"'Mother  av  God!'  sez  she,  turnin'  as  white 
as  my  belt;  '  Yiaweyou  seen  him  too  ?' 

"'Seen  him!' sez  I;  'av  coorse  I  have.  Did 
ye  want  me  not  to  see  him,  for' — we  were 
standin'  talkin'  in  the  dhark,  outside  the  veranda 
av  Bragin's  quarters — 'you'd  betther  tell  me  to 
shut  me  eyes.  Onless  I'm  mistaken,  he's  come 
now.' 

"An',  sure  enough,  the  Corp'ril  man  was 
walkin'  to  us,  hangin'  his  head  down  as  though 
he  was  ashamed  av  himsilf. 

"'Good-night,  Mrs.  Bragin,' sez  I,  very  cool; 
*  'tis  not  for  me  to  interfere  wid  your  a-moors ; 


650  Indian  Tales 

but  you  might  manage  some  things  wid  more 
dacincy.     I'm  off  to  canteen,'  I  sez. 

"  I  turned  on  my  heel  an'  wint  away,  swearin' 
I  wud  give  that  man  a  dhressin'  that  wud  shtop 
him  messin'  about  the  Married  Quarters  for  a 
month  an'  a  week.  I  had  not  tuk  ten  paces  be- 
fore Annie  Bragin  was  hangin'  on  to  my  arm,  an* 
I  cud  feel  that  she  was  shakin'  all  over. 

"'Stay  wid  me,  Mister  Mulvaney,'  sez  she; 
'you're  flesh  an'  blood,  at  the  least — are  ye 
not  ? ' 

"  '  I'm  all  that,'  sez  I,  an'  my  anger  wint  away 
in  a  flash.  'Will  I  want  to  be  asked  twice, 
Annie  ?' 

"Wid  that  I  slipped  my  arm  round  her  waist, 
for,  begad,  I  fancied  she  had  surrindered  at  dis- 
cretion, an'  the  honors  av  war  were  mine. 

"  '  Fwhat  nonsinse  is  this?'  sez  she,  dhrawin' 
hersilf  up  on  the  tips  av  her  dear  little  toes. 
'  Wid  the  mother's  milk  not  dhry  on  your  im- 
pident  mouth  ?    Let  go! '  she  sez. 

"  Did  ye  not  say  just  now  that  I  was  flesh  and 
blood?'  sez  I.  'I  have  not  changed  since,'  I 
sez;  an'  I  kep'  rny  arm  where  ut  was. 

"'Your  arms  to  yourself!'  sez  she,  an'  her 
eyes  sparkild. 

"'Sure,  'tis  only  human  nature,'  sez  I,  an'  I 
kep'  my  arm  where  ut  was. 

"'Nature  or  no  nature/  sez  she,   'yov  take 


The  Solid  Muldoon  687 

your  arm  away  or  I'll  tell  Bragin,  an'  he'll  alter 
the  nature  av  your  head.  Fwhat  d'you  take  me 
for  ? '  she  sez. 

"  'A  woman,'  sez  I;  'the  prettiest  in  barricks.' 

'"A  wife,'  sez  she;  'the  straightest  in  canton- 
mints!' 

"Wid  that  I  dropped  my  arm,  fell  back  tu 
paces,  an'  saluted,  for  I  saw  that  she  mint  fwhat 
she  said." 

"Then  you  know  something  that  some  men 
would  give  a  good  deal  to  be  certain  of.  How 
could  you  tell?"  I  demanded  in  the  interests  of 
Science. 

"Watch  the  hand,"  said  Mulvaney;  "av  she 
shut  her  hand  tight,  thumb  down  over  the 
knuckle,  take  up  your  hat  an'  go.  You'll  only 
make  a  fool  av  yoursilf  av  you  shtay.  But  av  the 
hand  lies  opin  on  the  lap,  or  av  you  see  her 
thryin' to  shut  ut,  an'  she  can't, — go  on!  She's 
not  past  reasonin'  wid. 

"Well,  as  I  was  sayin",  1  fell  back,  saluted,  an' 
was  goin'  away. 

"'Shtay  wid  me,'  she  sez.  'Look!  He's 
comin'  again.' 

"  She  pointed  to  the  veranda,  an'  by  the  Hoight 
av  Impart'nince,  the  Corp'ril  man  was  comin'  out 
av  Bragin's  quarters. 

"  '  He's  done  that  these  five  evenin's  past,'  sez 
Annie  Bragin.     '  Oh.  fwhat  will  1  do! ' 


688  Indian  Tales 

"'He'll  not  do  ut  again,'  sez  I,  for  I  was 
fightin'  mad. 

"  Kape  way  from  a  man  that  has  been  a  thrifle 
crossed  in  love  till  the  fever's  died  down.  He 
rages  like  a  brute  beast. 

"I  wint  up  to  the  man  in  the  veranda,  manin', 
as  sure  as  I  sit,  to  knock  the  life  out  av  him.  He 
slipped  into  the  open.  '  Fwhat  are  you  doin' 
philanderin'  about  here,  ye  scum  av  the  gutter?' 
sez  1  polite,  to  give  him  his  warnin',  for  1  wanted 
him  ready. 

"  He  niver  lifted  his  head,  but  sez,  all  mournful 
an'  melancolius,  as  if  he  thought  1  wud  be  sorry 
for  him:  ' I  can't  find  her,'  sez  he. 

"  '  My  troth,'  sez  I,  *  you've  lived  too  long — you 
an'  your  seekin's  an'  findin's  in  a  dacint  married 
woman's  quarters!  Hould  up  your  head,  ye 
frozen  thief  av  Genesis,'  sez  I,  '  an'  you'll  find  all 
you  want  an'  more! ' 

"But  he  niver  hild  up,  an'  I  let  go  from  the 
shoulder  to  where  the  hair  is  short  over  the  eye- 
brows. 

"  'That'll  do  your  business,'  sez  I,  but  it  nearly 
did  mine  instid.  1  put  my  bodyweight  behind 
the  blow,  but  I  hit  nothing  at  all,  an'  near  put  my 
shoulther  out.  The  Corp'ril  man  was  not  there, 
an'  Annie  Bragin,  who  had  been  watchin'  from 
the  veranda,  throws  up  her  heels,  an'  carries  on 
like    a    cock    whin    his   neck's   wrung  by  the 


The  Solid  Miildoon  689 

dhrummer-bhoy.  I  wint  back  to  her,  for  a  livin' 
woman,  an'  a  woman  like  Annie  Bragin,  is  more 
than  a  p'rade-groun'  full  av  ghosts.  I'd  never 
seen  a  woman  faint  before,  an"  I  stud  like  a 
shtuck  calf,  askin'  her  whether  she  was  dead,  an' 
prayin  her  for  the  love  av  me,  an'  the  love  av  her 
husband,  an'  the  love  av  the  Virgin,  to  opin  her 
blessed  eyes  again,  an'  callin'  mesilf  all  the  names 
undher  the  canopy  av  Hivin  for  plaguin'  her  wid 
my  miserable  a-moors  whin  I  ought  to  ha'  stud 
betune  her  an'  this  Corp'ril  man  that  had  lost  the 
number  av  his  mess. 

"I  misremimber  fwhat  nonsinse  I  said,  but  I 
was  not  so  far  gone  that  I  cud  not  hear  a  fut  on 
the  dirt  outside.  'Twas  Bragin  comin'  in,  an'  by 
the  same  token  Annie  was  comin'  to.  I  jumped 
to  the  far  end  av  the  veranda  an'  looked  as  if 
butter  wudn't  melt  in  my  mouth.  But  Mrs. 
Quinn,  the  Quarter-Master's  wife  that  was,  had 
tould  Bragin  about  my  hangin'  round  Annie. 

"'I'm  not  pleased  wid  you,  Mulvaney,'  sez 
Bragin,  unbucklin'  his  sword,  for  he  had  been  on 
duty. 

"'That's  bad  hearin','  I  sez,  an'  I  knew  that 
the  pickets  were  dhriven  in.  'What  for,  Sar- 
gint?'  sez  I. 

"'Come  outside,'  sez  he,  'an'  I'll  show  you 
■why.' 

"  'I'm  willin','  I  sez;  'but  my  stripes  are  none 


Sgo  Indian  Tales 

so  ould  that  I  can  afford  to  lose  thim.  Tell  me 
now,  who  do  I  go  out  wid  ? '  sez  I. 

"He  was  a  quick  man  an'  a  just,  an'  saw 
fwhat  I  wud  be  afther.  '  Wid  Mrs.  Bragin's 
husband,'  sez  he.  He  might  ha'  known  by  me 
askin'  that  favor  that  1  had  done  him  no  wrong. 

"We  wint  to  the  back  av  the  arsenal  an'  I 
stripped  to  him,  an'  for  ten  minutes  'twas  all  I 
cud  do  to  prevent  him  killin*  himself  against  my 
fistes.  He  was  mad  as  a  dumb  dog — ^just  froth- 
ing wid  rage;  but  he  had  no  chanst  wid  me  in 
reach,  or  learnin',  or  anything  else. 

"  'Will  ye  hear  reason?'  sez  1,  whin  his  first 
wind  was  run  out. 

"  'Not  whoile  I  can  see,'  sez  he,  Wid  that  I 
gave  him  both,  one  after  the  other,  smash 
through  the  low  gyard  that  he'd  been  taught  whin 
he  was  a  boy,  an'  the  eyebrow  shut  down  on  the 
cheek-bone  like  the  wing  av  a  sick  crow. 

"  'Will  you  hear  reason  now,  ye  brave  man?' 
sez  I. 

"  'Not  whoile  I  can  speak,'  sez  he,  staggerin' 
up  blind  as  a  stump.  1  was  loath  to  do  ut,  but  I 
wint  round  an'  swung  into  the  jaw  side-on  an' 
shifted  ut  a  half  pace  to  the  lef. 

"'Will  ye  hear  reason  now?' sez  I;  'I  can't 
keep  my  timper  much  longer,  an'  'tis  like  I  will 
hurt  you.' 

"  '  Not  whoile  I  can  stand,'  he  mumbles  out  av 


The  Solid  Muldoon  691 

one  corner  av  his  mouth.  So  I  closed  an'  threw 
him — blind,  dumb,  an'  sick,  an'  jammed  the  jaw 
straight. 

"  '  You're  an  ould  fool,  Mister  Bragin,'  sez  I. 

"'You're  a  young  thief/  sez  he,  'an'  ycuVe 
bruk  my  heart,  you  an'  Annie  betune  you! ' 

"  Thin  he  began  cryin'  like  a  child  as  he  lay.  I 
was  sorry  as  1  had  niver  been  before.  'Tis  an 
awful  thing  to  see  a  strong  man  cry. 

"  '  I'll  swear  on  the  Cross ! '  sez  I. 

"  '  I  care  for  none  av  your  oaths,'  sez  he. 

"  'Come  back  to  your  quarters,'  sez  1,  'an'  if 
you  don't  believe  the  livin",  begad,  you  shall 
listen  to  the  dead,'  1  sez. 

"  1  hoisted  him  an'  tuk  him  back  to  his  quarters. 
'Mrs.  Bragin,'  sez  I,  '  here's  a  man  that  you  can 
cure  quicker  than  me.' 

"'You've  shamed  me  before  my  wife,'  he 
whimpers. 

"  '  Have  I  so  .? '  sez  I.  '  By  the  look  on  Mrs. 
Bragin  s  face  I  think  I'm  for  a  dhressin'-down 
worse  than  I  gave  you.' 

"An'  I  was!  Annie  Bragin  was  woild  wid 
indignation.  There  was  not  a  name  that  a 
dacint  woman  cud  use  that  was  not  given  my 
way.  I've  had  my  Colonel  walk  roun'  me  like  a 
cooper  roun'  a  cask  for  fifteen  minutes  in  Ord'ly 
Room,  bekaze  I  wint  into  the  Corner  Shop  an 
unstrapped  lewnatic;  but  all  that  1  iver  tuk  from 


692  Indian  Tales 

his  rasp  av  a  tongue  was  ginger-pop  to  fwhat 
Annie  tould  me.  An'  tliat,  mark  you,  is  the  way 
av  a  woman. 

"Whin  ut  was  done  for  want  av  breath,  an' 
Annie  was  bendin'  over  her  husband,  I  sez:  '  'Tis 
ail  thrue,  an'  I'm  a  blayguard  an'  you're  an  honest 
woman;  but  will  you  tell  him  of  wan  service 
that  1  did  you  } ' 

"As  I  finished  speakin'  the  Corp'ril  man  came 
up  to  the  veranda,  an'  Annie  Bragin  shquealed. 
The  moon  was  up,  an'  we  cud  see  his  face. 

"M  can't  find  her,' scz  the  Corp'ril  man,  an' 
wint  out  like  the  puff  av  a  candle. 

"'Saints  stand  betune  us  an'  evil!'  sez 
Bragin,  crossin'  himself;  *  that's  Flahy  av  the 
Tyrone.' 

"'Who  was  he?'  I  sez,  ' for  he  has  given  me 
a  dale  av  fightin'  this  day.' 

"  Bragin  tould  us  that  Flahy  was  a  Corp'ril  who 
lost  his  wife  av  cholera  in  those  quarters  three 
years  gone,  an'  wint  mad.  an'  walked  afther  they 
buried  him,  huntin'  for  her. 

"'Well,'  sez  I  to  Bragin,  'he's  been  hookin' 
out  av  Purgathory  to  kape  company  wid  Mrs. 
Bragin  ivry  evenin'  for  the  last  fortnight.  You 
may  tell  Mrs.  Quinn,  wid  my  love,  for  I  know 
that  she's  been  talkin'  to  you,  an'  you've  been 
listenin',  that  she  ought  to  ondherstand  the  differ 
'twixt  a  man  an'  a  ghost.     She's  had  three  hus- 


The  Solid  h^ldoon  693 

bands,'  sez  I,  'an' you've  got  a  wife  too  good  for 
you.  Instid  av  which  you  lave  her  to  be  bod- 
dered  by  ghosts  an' — an'  all  manner  av  evil 
spirruts.  I'll  niver  go  talkin'  in  the  way  av 
politeness  to  a  man's  wife  again.  Good-night  to 
you  both,'  sez  1;  an'  wid  that  I  wint  away, 
havin'  fought  wid  woman,  man  and  Divil  all  in 
the  heart  av  an  hour.  By  the  same  token  I  gave 
Father  Victor  wan  rupee  to  say  a  mass  for  Flahy's 
soul,  me  havin'  discommoded  him  by  shticking 
my  fist  into  his  systim." 

"Your  ideas  of  politeness  seem  rather  large, 
Mulvaney,"  I  said. 

"That's  as  you  look  at  ut,"  said  Mulvaney, 
calmly;  "  Annie  Bragin  niver  cared  for  me.  For 
all  that,  I  did  not  want  to  leave  anything  behin' 
me  that  Bragin  could  take  hould  av  to  be  angry 
wid  her  about — whin  an  honust  wurrd  cud  ha' 
cleared  all  up.  There's  nothing  like  opin-speakin'. 
Orth'ris,  ye  scutt,  let  me  put  me  oi  to  that  bottle, 
for  my  throat's  as  dhry  as  whin  I  thought  1  wud 
get  a  kiss  from  Annie  Bragin.  An'  that's  four- 
teen years  gone!  Eyah!  Cork's  own  city  an' 
the  blue  sky  above  ut — an'  the  times  that  was — 
the  times  that  was!" 


THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS 

An'  when  the  war  began,  we  chased  the  bold  Afghan, 
An'  we  made  the  bloomin'  Ghazi  for  to  flee,  boys  O ! 
An'  we  marched  into  Y^z-btil,  an'  we  tuk  the  Balar  'Issar 
An'  we  taught  'em  to  respec'  the  British  Soldier. 

Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

MULVANEY,  Ortheris  and  Learoyd  are  Pri- 
vates in  B  Company  of  a  Line  Regiment, 
and  personal  friends  of  mine.  Collectively  I 
think,  but  am  not  certain,  they  are  the  worsf 
men  in  the  regiment  so  far  as  genial  blackguard- 
ism  goes. 

They  told  me  this  story,  in  the  Umballa  Re- 
freshment Room  while  we  were  waiting  for  an 
up-train.  I  supplied  the  beer.  The  tale  was 
cheap  at  a  gallon  and  a  half. 

All  men  know  Lord  Benira  Trig.  He  is  a 
Duke,  or  an  Earl,  or  something  unofficial;  also  a 
Peer;  also  a  Globe-trotter.  On  all  three  counts, 
as  Ortheris  says,  "'e  didn't  deserve  no  consider- 
ation." He  was  out  in  India  for  three  months 
collecting  materials  for  a  book  on  "Our  Eastern 
Impedimenta,"  and  quartering  himself  upon 
everybody,  like  a  Cossack  in  evening-dress. 

His  particular  vice — because  he  was  a  Radical, 
694 


The  Three  Musketeers  695 

men  said — was  having  garrisons  turned  out  for 
his  inspection.  He  would  then  dine  with  the 
Officer  Commanding,  and  insult  him,  across  the 
Mess  table,  about  the  appearance  of  the  troops. 
That  was  Benira's  way. 

He  turned  out  troops  once  too  often.  He  came 
to  Helanthami  Cantonment  on  a  Tuesday.  He 
wished  to  go  shopping  in  the  bazars  on  Wednes- 
day, and  he  "desired'  the  troops  to  be  turned 
out  on  a  Thursday.  On — a — Thursday.  The 
Officer  Commanding  could  not  well  refuse;  for 
Benira  was  a  Lord.  There  was  an  indignation- 
meeting  of  subalterns  in  the  Mess  Room,  to  call 
the  Colonel  pet  names. 

"But  the  rale  dimonstrashin,"  said  Mulvaney, 
"was  in  B  Comp'ny  barricl<;  we  three  headin' 
it." 

Mulvaney  climbed  on  to  the  refreshment-bar, 
settled  himself  comfortably  by  the  beer,  and 
went  on,  "Whin  the  row  was  at  ut's  foinest  an' 
B  Comp'ny  was  fur  goin'  out  to  murther  this  man 
Thrigg  on  the  p'rade-groun',  Learoyd  here  takes 
up  his  helmut  an'  sez — fv/hat  was  ut  ye  said  }  " 

"Ah  said,"  said  Learoyd,  "gie  us  t'  brass. 
Tak  oop  a  subscripshun,  lads,  for  to  put  off  t' 
p'rade,  an'  if  t'  p'rade's  not  put  off,  ah'll  gie  t* 
brass  back  agean.  Thot's  wot  ah  said.  All  B 
Coomp'ny  knawed  me.  Ah  took  oop  a  big  sub- 
scripshun— fower  rupees  eight  annas  'twas — an' 


6q6  Indian  Tales 

ah  went  oot  to  turn  t'  job  over.  Mulvaney  an' 
Orth'ris  coom  with  me." 

"We  three  raises  the  Divil  in  couples  gin'rally," 
explained  Mulvaney. 

Here  Ortheris  interrupted.  "  'Ave  you  read  the 
papers.^"  said  he. 

"Sometimes,"  I  said. 

"We  'ad  read  the  papers,  an'  we  put  hup  a 
faked  decoity,  a — a  sedukshun." 

"y^Mukshin,  ye  cockney,"  said  Mulvaney. 

"y^Mukshun  or  sedukshun — no  great  odds. 
Any'ow,  we  arranged  to  talk  an'  put  Mister  Ben- 
hira  out  o"  the  way  till  Thursday  was  hover,  or 
'e  too  busy  to  rux  'isself  about  p'raids.  Hi  was 
the  man  wot  said,  *  We'll  make  a  few  rupees  off 
o'  the  business.' " 

"We  hild  a  Council  av  War,"  continued  Mul- 
vaney, "walkin'  roun' by  the  Artill'ry  Lines.  I 
was  Prisidint,  Learoyd  was  Minister  av  Finance, 
an'  little  Orth'ris  here  was  " — 

' '  A  bloomin'  Bismarck !  Hi  made  the  'ole  show 
pay." 

"This  interferin'  bit  av  a  Benira  man,"  said 
Mulvaney,  "  did  the  thrick  for  us  himself;  for,  on 
me  sowl,  we  hadn't  a  notion  av  what  was  to 
come  afther  the  next  minut.  He  was  shoppin' 
in  the  bazar  on  fut.  'Twas  dhrawin'  dusk  thin, 
an'  we  stud  watchin'  the  little  man  hoppin'  in  an' 
out  av  the  shops,  thryin'  to  injuce  the  naygurs  to 


The   Three  Musketeers  697 

mallum  his  bat.  Prisintly,  he  sthrols  up,  his 
arrums  full  av  thruck,  an'  he  sez  in  a  consi- 
quinshal  way,  shticking  out  his  little  belly,  '  Me 
good  men,'  sez  he,  'have  ye  seen  the  Kernel's 
b'roosh?' — '  B'roosh  ?'  says  Learoyd.  'There's 
no  b'roosh  here — nobbut  a  hekka.' — '  F what's 
that?'  sez  Thrigg.  Learoyd  shows  him  wan 
down  the  sthreet,  an'  he  sez,  '  How  thruly 
Orientil!  I  will  ride  on  a  hekka.'  1  saw  thin 
that  our  Rigimintal  Saint  was  for  givin'  Thrigg 
over  to  us  neck  an'  brisket.  1  purshued  a  hekka, 
an'  I  sez  to  the  dhriver-divil,  I  sez,  '  Ye  black 
limb,  there's  a  Sahib  comin'  for  this  hekka.  He 
wants  to  go  jildi  to  the  Padsahi  Jhil ' — 'twas 
about  tu  moiles  away — '  to  shoot  snipe — chirria. 
You  dhrive  Jehanmim  ke  marjik,  mallum — like 
Hell  ?  'Tis  no  manner  av  use  bitkkin'  to  the 
Sahib,  bekaze  he  doesn't  samjao  your  talk.  Av 
he  bolos  anything,  just  you  choop  and  chel. 
Dekker?  Go  arsfy  for  the  first  aj^der-mile  from 
cantonmints.  Thin  chel,  Shaitan  ke  marjik,  an' 
the  chooper  you  choops  an'  the  jildicr  you  chels 
the  better  kooshy  will  that  Sahib  be;  an'  here's  a 
rupee  for  ye  ? ' 

"The  hekka-man  knew  there  was  somethin' 
out  av  the  common  in  the  air.  He  grinned  ar' 
sez,  'Bote  achee!  I  goin'  damn  fast.'  I  prayed 
that  the  Kernel's  b'roosh  wudn't  arrive  till  me 
darlin'  Benira  by  the  grace  av  God  was  undhei 


698  Indian  Taks 

weigh.  The  little  man  puts  his  thruck  into  the 
hekka  an'  scuttles  in  like  a  fat  guinea-pig;  niver 
offerin'  us  the  price  av  a  dhrink  for  our  services 
in  helpin'  him  home.  '  He's  off  to  the  Padsahi 
jhil,'  sez  I  to  the  others." 

Ortheris  took  up  the  tale  — 

"Jist  then,  little  Buldoo  kirn  up,  '00  was  the 
son  of  one  of  the  Artillery  grooms — 'e  would  'av 
made  a  'evinly  newspaper-boy  in  London,  bein' 
sharp  an'  fly  to  all  manner  o'  games.  'E  'ad  bin 
watchin'  us  puttin'  Mister  Benhira  into  'is  tem- 
porary baroush,  an'  'e  sez,  '  What  'ave  you  been 
a  doin'  of,  Sahibs?'  sez  'e.  Learoyd 'e  caught 
'im  by  the  ear  an  'e  sez  " — 

"Ah  says,"  went  on  Learoyd,  'Young  mon, 
that  mon's  gooin'  to  have  t'  goons  out  o'  Thurs- 
day— to-morrow — an'  thot's  more  work  for  you, 
young  mon.  Now,  sitha,  tak'  a  tat  an'  a  lookri, 
an'  ride  tha  domdest  to  t'  Padsahi  Jhil.  Cotch  thot 
there  hekka,  and  tell  t'  driver  iv  your  lingo  thot 
you've  coom  to  tak'  his  place.  T'  Sahib  doesn't 
speak  t'  bat,  an'  he's  a  little  mon.  Drive  t'  hekka 
into  t'  Padsahi  Jhil  into  t'  watter.  Leave  f  Sahib 
theer  an'  roon  hoam;  an'  here's  a  rupee  for  tha.'  " 

Then  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  spoke  together  in 
alternate  fragments:  Mulvaney  leading  [You  must 
pick  out  the  two  speakers  as  best  you  can]: — 
•*  He  was  a  knowin'  little  divil  was  Bhuldoo, — 'e 
sez  bote  achee  an'  cuts — wid  a  wink  in  his  oi — 


The   Three  Musketeers  699 

but  Hi  sez  there's  money  to  be  made — an'  ! 
wanted  to  see  the  ind  av  the  campaign — so  Hi 
says  we'll  double  hout  to  the  Padsahi  Jhil — an' 
save  the  little  man  from  bein'  dacoited  by  the 
murtherin'  Bhuldoo — an'  turn  hup  like  reskooers 
in  a  Vic'oria  Melodrama — so  we  doubled  for  the 
jhil,  an'  prisintly  there  was  the  divil  av  a  hurroosh 
behind  us  an'  three  bhoys  on  grasscuts'  ponies 
come  by,  poundin'  along  for  the  dear  life — s'elp 
me  Bob,  hif  Buldoo  'adn't  raised  a  rig'lar  harmy 
of  decoits — to  do  the  job  in  shtile.  An'  we  ran, 
an'  they  ran,  shplittin'  with  laughin',  till  we  gets 
near  Xh^  jhil — and  'ears  sounds  of  distress  floatin' 
molloncolly  on  the  hevenin'  hair."  [Ortheris  was 
growing  poetical  under  the  influence  of  the  beer. 
The  duet  recommenced :  Mulvaney  leading  again.] 
"  Thin  we  heard  Bhuldoo,  the  dacoit,  shoutin' 
to  the  hekka  man,  an'  wan  of  the  young  divils 
brought  his  stick  down  on  the  top  av  the  hehka- 
cover,  an'  Benira  Thrigg  inside  howled  'Murther 
an'  Death.'  Buldoo  takes  the  reins  and  dhrives 
like  mad  for  the  jhil,  havin'  dishpersed  the  hekka- 
dhriver — '00  cum  up  to  us  an'  'e  sez,  sez  'e,  'That 
Sahib's  nigh  mad  with  funk!  Wot  devil's  work 
'ave  you  led  me  into?' — 'Hall  right,'  sez  we, 
'you  catch  that  there  pony  an'  come  along.  This 
Sahib's  been  decoited,  an'  we're  going  to  resky 
'im!'  Says  the  driver,  'Decoits!  Wot  decoits? 
That's  Buldoo  the  budmash ' — '  Bhuldoo  be  shot!' 


700  Indian  Tales 

sez  we.  '  Tis  a  woild  dissolute  Pathan  frum  the 
hills.  There's  about  eight  av  thim  coercin'  the 
Sahib.  You  remimber  that  an  you'll  get  another 
rupee! '  Thin  we  heard  the  %x)hop-whop-whop  sly 
the  hekka  turnin'  over,  an'  a  splash  av  water  an' 
the  voice  av  Benira  Thrigg  callin'  upon  God  to 
forgive  his  sins — an'  Buldoo  an'  'is  friends  squot- 
terin'  in  the  water  like  boys  in  the  Serpentine." 

Here  the  Three  Musketeers  retired  simulta- 
neously into  the  beer. 

"  Well  ?    What  came  next  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Fwhat  nex'?"  answered  Mulvaney,  wiping 
his  mouth.  "  Wud  ye  let  three  bould  sodger- 
bhoys  lave  the  ornamint  av  the  House  av  Lords 
to  be  dhrowned  an'  dacoited  in  a  j'hil?  We 
formed  line  av  quarther-column  an'  we  discinded 
upon  the  inimy.  For  the  better  part  av  tin  min- 
utes you  could  not  hear  yerself  spake.  The  tattoo 
was  screamin'  in  chune  wid  Benira  Thrigg  an' 
Bhuldoo's  army,  an'  the  shticks  was  whistlin' 
roun'  the  hekka,  an'  Orth'ris  was  beatin'  the 
hekka-cover  wid  his  fistes,  an'  Learoyd  yellin', 
'Look  out  for  their  knives!'  an'  me  cuttin'  into 
the  dark,  right  an'  lef,  dishpersin'  arrmy  corps 
av  Pathans.  Holy  Mother  av  Moses!  'twas  more 
disp'rit  than  Ahmid  Kheyl  wid  Maiwund  thrown 
in.  Afther  a  while  Bhuldoo  an'  his  bhoys  flees. 
Have  ye  iver  seen  a  rale  live  Lord  thryin'  to  hide 
his  nobility  undher  a  fut  an'  a  half  av  brown 


The   Three  Musketeers  701 

swamp-wather  ?  'Tis  the  livin'  image  av  a  water- 
carrier's  goatskin  wid  the  shivers.  It  tuk  toime 
to  pershuade  me  frind  Benira  he  was  not  disim- 
bowilled:  an'  more  toime  to  get  out  the  hekka. 
The  dhriver  come  up  afther  the  battle,  swearin' 
he  tuk  a  hand  in  repulsin'  the  inimy.  Benira  was 
sick  wid  the  fear.  We  escorted  him  back,  very 
slow,  to  cantonmints,  for  that  an'  the  chill  to 
soak  into  him.  It  suk!  Glory  be  to  the  Rigi- 
mintil  Saint,  but  it  suk  to  the  marrow  av  Lord 
Benira  Thrigg!" 

Here  Ortheris,  slowly,  with  immense  pride — 
**'E  sez,  'You  har  my  noble  preservers,'  sez  'e. 
'You  har  a  ^onor  to  the  British  Harmy,'  sez  'e. 
With  that  e'  describes  the  hawful  band  of  dacoits 
wot  set  on  'im.  There  was  about  forty  of  'em 
an'  'e  was  hoverpowered  by  numbers,  so  'e  was; 
but  'e  never  lorst  'is  presence  of  mind,  so  'e 
didn't.  'E  guv  the  hekka-&n\QX  five  rupees  for 
'is  noble  assistance,  an'  'e  said  'e  would  see  to  us 
after  'e  'ad  spoken  to  the  Kernul.  For  we  was  a 
/fonor  to  the  Regiment,  we  was." 

"An'  we  three,"  said  Mulvaney,  with  a  se- 
raphic smile,  "  have  dhrawn  the  par-ti-cu-lar  at- 
tinshin  av  Bobs  Bahadur  more  than  wanst.  But 
he's  a  rale  good  little  man  is  Bobs.  Go  on,  Orth'- 
ris,  my  son." 

"Then  we  leaves  'im  at  the  Kernul's  'ouse, 
werry  sick,  an'  we  cuts  hover  to  B  Comp'ny  bar- 


702  Indian   Tales 

rick  an'  we  sez  we  'ave  saved  Benira  from  a 
bloody  doom,  an'  the  chances  was  agin  there 
bein'  p'raid  on  Thursday.  About  ten  minutes 
later  come  three  envelicks,  one  for  each  of  us. 
S'elp  me  Bob,  if  the  old  bloke  'adn't  guv  us  a 
fiver  apiece — sixty-four  rupees  in  the  bazar!  On 
Thursday  'e  was  in  'orspital  recoverin'  from  'is 
sanguinary  encounter  with  a  gang  of  Pathans, 
an'  B  Comp'ny  was  drinkin'  'emselves  into  Clink 
by  squads.  So  there  never  was  no  Thursday 
p'raid.  But  the  Kernul,  when  'e  'eard  of  our 
galliant  conduct,  'e  sez,  '  Hi  know  there's  been 
some  devilry  somewheres,'  sez  'e,  'but  I  can't 
bring  it  'ome  to  you  three.'  " 

"An'  my  privit  imprisshin  is,"  said  Mulvaney, 
getting  off  the  bar  and  turning  his  glass  upside 
down,  "that,  av  they  had  known  they  wudn't 
have  brought  ut  home.  'Tis  flyin'  in  the  face, 
firstly  av  Nature,  secon'  av  the  Rig'lations,  an' 
third  the  will  av  Terence  Mulvaney,  to  hold 
p'rades  av  Thursdays." 

"Good,  ma  son!"  said  Learoyd;  "but,  young 
mon,  what's  t'  notebook  for.?" 

"Let  be,"  said  Mulvaney;  "this  time  next 
month  we're  in  the  Sherapis.  'Tis  immortial  fame 
the  gentleman's  goin'  to  give  us.  But  kape  it 
dhark  till  we're  out  av  the  range  av  me  little  frind 
Bobs  Bahadur." 

And  I  have  obeyed  Mulvaney's  order. 


BEYOND  THE  PALE 

Love  heeds  not  caste  nor  sleep  a  broken  bed.  I  went  in 
search  of  love  and  lost  myself. — Hindu  Proverb. 

A  MAN  should,  whatever  happens,  keep  to 
his  own  caste,  race  and  breed.  Let  the 
White  go  to  the  White  and  the  Black  to  the 
Black.  Then,  whatever  trouble  falls  is  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  things — neither  sudden,  alien 
nor  unexpected. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  man  who  wilfally  stepped 
beyond  the  safe  limits  of  decent  everyday  so- 
ciety, and  paid  for  it  heavily. 

He  knew  too  much  in  the  first  instance;  and 
he  saw  too  much  in  the  second.  He  took  too 
deep  an  interest  in  native  life;  but  he  will  never 
do  so  again. 

Deep  away  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  behind 
Jitha  Megji's  btistee,  lies  Amir  Nalh's  Gully, 
which  ends  in  a  dead-wall  pierced  by  one  grated 
window.  At  the  head  of  the  Gully  is  a  big 
cowbyre,  and  the  walls  on  either  side  of  the 
Gully  are  without  windows.  Neither  Suchet 
Singh  nor  Gaur  Chand  approve  of  their  women- 
folk looking  into  the  world.  If  Durga  Charan 
703 


704 


Indian  Tales 


had  been  of  their  opinion,  he  would  have  been  a 
happier  man  to-day,  and  little  Bisesa  would  have 
been  able  to  knead  her  own  bread.  Her  room 
looked  out  through  the  grated  window  into  the 
narrow  dark  Gully  where  the  sun  never  came 
and  where  the  buffaloes  wallowed  in  the  blue 
slime.  She  was  a  widow,  about  fifteen  years 
old,  and  she  prayed  the  Gods,  day  and  night,  to 
send  her  a  lover;  for  she  did  not  approve  of  liv- 
ing alone. 

One  day,  the  man — Trejago  his  name  was — 
came  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully  on  an  aimless  wan- 
dering; and,  after  he  had  passed  the  buffaloes, 
stumbled  over  a  big  heap  of  cattle-food. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  Gully  ended  in  a  trap, 
and  heard  a  little  laugh  from  behind  the  grated 
window.  It  was  a  pretty  little  laugh,  and  Tre- 
jago, knowing  that,  for  all  practical  purposes,  the 
old  Arabian  Nights  are  good  guides,  went  for- 
ward to  the  window,  and  whispered  that  verse 
of  "  The  Love  Song  of  Har  Dyal "  which  begins: 

Can  a  man  stand  upright  in  the  face  of  the  naked  Sun ;  or 
%  Lover  in  the  Presence  of  his  Beloved  ? 

If  my  feet  fail  me,  O  Heart  of  my  Heart,  am  I  to  blam*, 
being  blinded  by  the  glimpse  of  your  beauty  ? 

There  came  the  faint  tchink  of  a  woman's 
bracelets  from  behind  the  grating,  and  a  little 
voice  went  on  with  the  song  at  the  fifth  verse: 


Beyond  the  Pale  705 

Alas !  alas !  Can  the  Moon  tell  the  Lotus  of  her  love  when 
the  Gate  of  Heaven  is  shut  and  the  clouds  gather  for  the  rains  ? 

They  have  taken  my  Beloved,  and  driven  her  with  the  pack- 
horses  to  the  North. 

There  are  iron  chains  on  the  feet  that  were  set  on  my  heart. 

Call  to  the  bowmen  to  make  ready  — 

The  voice  stopped  suddenly,  and  Trejago 
walked  out  of  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  wondering 
who  in  the  world  could  have  capped  "The  Love 
Song  of  Har  Dyal "  so  neatly. 

Next  morning,  as  he  was  driving  to  office,  an 
old  woman  threw  a  packet  into  his  dog-cart.  In 
the  packet  was  the  half  of  a  broken  glass-bangle, 
one  flower  of  the  blood-red  dhah,  a  pinch  of 
bhusa  or  cattle-food,  and  eleven  cardamoms. 
That  packet  was  a  letter — not  a  clumpsy  com- 
promising letter,  but  an  innocent  unintelligible 
lovers  epistle. 

Trejago  knew  far  too  much  about  these  things, 
as  I  have  said.  No  Englishman  should  be  able  to 
translate  object-letters.  But  Trejago  spread  all 
the  trifles  on  the  lid  of  his  office-box  and  began 
to  puzzle  them  out. 

A  broken  glass-bangle  stands  for  a  Hindu 
widov/  all  India  over;  because,  when  her  hus- 
band dies,  a  woman's  bracelets  are  broken  o*^  her 
wrists.  Trejago  saw  the  meaning  of  the  little  bit 
of  the  glass.  The  flower  of  the  dhak  means 
diversely  "desire,"  "come,"  "  write,"  or  "dan- 


7o6  Indian  Tales 

ger,"  according  to  the  other  things  with  it.  One 
cardamom  means  "jealousy";  but  when  any 
article  is  duplicated  in  an  object-letter,  it  loses  its 
symbolic  meaning  and  stands  merely  for  one  of  a 
number  indicating  time,  or,  if  incense,  curds,  or 
saffron  be  sent  also,  place.  The  message  ran 
then — "A  widow — dhak  flower  and  ^/^//sj, — at 
eleven  o'clock."  The  pinch  of  bhusa  enlightened 
Trejago.  He  saw — this  kind  of  letter  leaves 
much  to  instinctive  knowledge — that  the  bhusa 
referred  to  the  big  heap  of  cattle-food  over  which 
he  had  fallen  in  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  and  that  the 
message  must  come  from  the  person  behind  the 
grating;  she  being  a  widow.  So  the  message 
ran  then — "A  widow,  in  the  Gully  in  which  is 
the  heap  of  bhusa,  desires  you  to  come  at  eleven 
o'clock." 

Trejago  threw  all  the  rubbish  into  the  fireplace 
and  laughed.  He  knew  that  men  in  the  East  do 
not  make  love  under  windows  at  eleven  in  the 
forenoon,  nor  do  women  fix  appointments  a 
week  in  advance.  So  he  went,  that  very  night 
at  eleven,  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  clad  in  a 
boorka,  which  cloaks  a  man  as  well  as  a  woman. 
Directly  the  gongs  of  the  City  made  the  hour,  the 
littie  voice  behind  the  grating  took  up  "  The  Love 
Song  of  Har  Dyal "  at  the  verse  where  the  Pan- 
than  girl  calls  upon  Har  Dyal  to  return.  The 
Song  is  really  pretty  in  the  Vernacular.     In  Eng- 


Beyond  the  Pale  707 

lish  you  miss  the  wail  of  it.    It  runs  something 
like  this  — 

Alone  upon  the  housetops,  to  the  North 

I  turn  and  watch  the  lightning  in  the  sky,— 

The  glamour  of  thy  footsteps  in  the  North, 
Come  back  to  tiie,  Beloved,  or  I  die  ! 

Below  my  feet  the  still  bazar  is  laid 
Far,  far,  below  the  weary  camels  lie, — 

The  camels  and  the  captives  of  thy  raid, 
Cotne  back  to  me.  Beloved,  or  I  die  / 

My  father's  wife  is  old  and  harsh  with  years. 
And  drudge  of  all  my  father's  house  am  I.— 

My  bread  is  sorrow  and  my  drink  is  tears. 
Come  back  to  me.  Beloved,  or  I  die  ! 

As  the  song  stopped,  Trejago  stepped  up  undei 
the  grating  and  whispered — "  I  am  here." 

Bisesa  was  good  to  look  upon. 

That  night  was  the  beginning  of  many  strange 
things,  and  of  a  double  life  so  wild  that  Trejago 
to-day  sometimes  wonders  if  it  were  not  all  a 
dream.  Bisesa,  or  her  old  handmaiden  who  had 
thrown  the  object-letter,  had  detached  the  heavy 
grating  from  the  brick-work  of  the  wall;  so  that 
the  window  slid  inside,  leaving  only  a  square  of 
raw  masonry  into  which  an  active  man  might 
climb. 

In  the  daytime,  Trejago  drove  through  his 
routine  of  office-work,  or  put  on  his  calling- 


7o8  Indian  Tales, 

clothes  and  called  on  the  ladies  of  the  Station; 
wondering  how  long  they  would  know  him  if 
they  knew  of  poor  little  Bisesa.  At  night,  when 
all  the  City  was  still,  came  the  walk  under  the 
evil-smelling  boorka,  the  patrol  through  Jitha 
Megji's  bustee,  the  quick  turn  into  Amir  Math's 
Gully  between  the  sleeping  cattle  and  the  dead 
walls,  and  then,  last  of  all,  Bisesa,  and  the  deep, 
even  breathing  of  the  old  woman  who  slept  out- 
side the  door  of  the  bare  little  room  that  Durga 
Charan  allotted  to  his  sister's  daughter.  Who  or 
what  Durga  Charan  v/as,  Trejago  never  inquired; 
and  why  in  the  world  he  was  not  discovered  and 
knifed  never  occurred  to  him  till  his  madness  was 
over,  and  Bisesa    .     .     .     But  this  comes  later. 

Bisesa  was  an  endless  delight  to  Trejago.  She 
was  as  ignorant  as  a  bird;  and  her  distorted  ver- 
sions of  the  rumors  from  the  outside  world  that 
had  reached  her  in  her  room,  amused  Trejago  al- 
most as  much  as  her  lisping  attempts  to  pro- 
nounce his  name — "Christopher."  The  first 
syllable  was  always  more  than  she  could  manage, 
and  she  made  funny  little  gestures  with  her  rose- 
leaf  hands,  as  one  throwing  the  name  away,  and 
then,  kneeling  before  Trejago,  asked  him,  exactly 
as  an  Englishwoman  would  do,  if  he  were  sure 
he  loved  her.  Trejago  swore  that  he  loved  her 
more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Which 
was  true. 


Beyond  the  Pale  709 

After  a  month  of  this  folly,  the  exigencies  of 
his  other  life  compelled  Trejago  to  be  especially 
attentive  to  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  You 
may  take  it  for  a  fact  that  anything  of  this  kind 
is  not  only  noticed  and  discussed  by  a  man's  own 
race  but  by  some  hundred  and  fifty  natives  as 
well.  Trejago  had  to  walk  with  this  lady  and 
talk  to  her  at  the  Band-stand,  and  once  or  twice 
to  drive  with  her;  never  for  an  instant  dreaming 
that  this  would  affect  his  dearer,  out-of-the-way 
life.  But  the  news  flew,  in  the  usual  mysterious 
fashion,  from  mouth  to  mouth,  till  Bisesa's 
duenna  heard  of  it  and  told  Bisesa.  The  child 
was  so  troubled  that  she  did  the  household  work 
evilly,  and  was  beaten  by  Durga  Charan's  wife 
in  consequence. 

A  week  later,  Bisesa  taxed  Trejago  with  the 
flirtation.  She  understood  no  gradations  and 
spoke  openly.  Trejago  laughed  and  Bisesa 
stamped  her  little  feet — little  feet,  light  as  mari- 
gold flowers,  that  could  lie  in  the  palm  of  a  man's 
one  hand. 

Much  that  is  written  about  Oriental  passion 
and  impulsiveness  is  exaggerated  and  compiled 
at  second-hand,  but  a  little  of  it  is  true;  and 
when  an  Englishman  finds  that  little,  it  is  quite 
as  startling  as  any  passion  in  his  own  proper  life. 
Bisesa  raged  and  stormed,  and  finally  threatened 
to  kill  herself  if  Trejago  did  not  at  once  drop  the 


7IO  Indian  Tales 

alien  Memsahib  who  had  come  between  them. 
Trejago  tried  to  explain,  and  to  show  her  that  she 
did  not  understand  these  things  from  a  Western 
standpoint.  Bisesa  drew  herself  up,  and  said 
simply  — 

"I  do  not.  I  know  only  this — it  is  not  good 
that  1  should  have  made  you  dearer  than  my  own 
heart  to  me.  Sahib.  You  are  an  Englishman.  I 
am  only  a  black  girl" — she  v/as  fairer  than  bar- 
gold  in  the  Mint, — "and  the  widow  of  a  black 
man." 

Then  she  sobbed  and  said — "But  on  my  soul 
and  my  Mother's  soul,  I  love  you.  There  shall 
no  harm  come  to  you,  whatever  happens  to  me." 

Trejago  argued  with  the  child,  and  tried  to 
soothe  her,  but  she  seemed  quite  unreasonably 
disturbed.  Nothing  would  satisfy  her  save  that 
all  relations  between  them  should  end.  He  was 
to  go  away  at  once.  And  he  went.  As  he 
dropped  out  of  the  window,  she  kissed  his  fore- 
head twice,  and  he  walked  home  wondering. 

A  week,  and  then  three  weeks,  passed  without 
a  sign  from  Bisesa.  Trejago,  thinking  that  the 
rupture  had  lasted  quite  long  enough,  went 
down  to  Amir  Nath's  Gully  for  the  fifth  time 
in  the  three  weeks,  hoping  that  his  rap  at  the  sill 
of  the  shifting  grating  would  be  answered.  He 
was  not  disappointed. 

There  was  a  young  moon,  and  one  stream  of 


Beyond  the  Pale  711 

light  fell  down  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully,  and 
struck  the  grating  which  was  drawn  away  as  he 
knocked.  From  the  black  dark,  Bisesa  held  out 
her  arms  into  the  moonlight.  Both  hands  had 
been  cut  off  at  the  wrists,  and  the  stumps  were 
nearly  healed. 

Then,  as  Bisesa  bowed  her  head  between  her 
arms  and  sobbed,  some  one  in  the  room  grunted 
like  a  wild  beast,  and  something  sharp — knife, 
sword,  or  spear, — thrust  at  Trejago  in  his  boorka. 
The  stroke  missed  his  body,  but  cut  into  one  of 
the  muscles  of  the  groin,  and  he  limped  slightly 
from  the  wound  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

The  grating  went  into  its  plac3.  There  was 
no  sign  whatever  from  inside  the  house, — noth- 
ing but  the  moonlight  strip  on  the  high  wall,  and 
the  blackness  of  Amir  Nath's  Gully  behind. 

The  next  thing  Trejago  remembers,  after  rag- 
ing and  shouting  like  a  madman  between  those 
pitiless  walls,  is  that  he  found  himself  near  the 
river  as  the  dawn  was  breaking,  threw  away  his 
boorka  and  went  home  bareheaded. 


What  was  the  traged}' — whether  Bisesa  had, 
in  a  fit  of  causeless  despair,  told  everything,  or 
the  intrigue  had  been  discovered  and  she  tortured 
to  tell;  whether  Durga  Charan  knew  his  name 
and  what  became  of  Bisesa — Trejago  does  not 


712  Indian   Tales 

know  to  this  day.  Something  horrible  had  hap- 
pened, and  the  thought  of  what  it  must  have 
been,  comes  upon  Trejago  in  the  night  now  and 
again,  and  keeps  him  company  till  the  morning. 
One  special  feature  of  the  case  is  that  he  does 
not  know  where  lies  the  front  of  Durga  Charan's 
house.  It  may  open  on  to  a  courtyard  common 
to  two  or  more  houses,  or  it  may  lie  behind  any 
one  of  the  gates  of  Jitha  Megji's  bustee.  Trejago 
cannot  tell.  He  cannot  get  Bisesa — poor  little 
Bisesa — back  again.  He  has  lost  her  in  the  City 
where  each  man's  house  is  as  guarded  and  as 
unknowable  as  the  grave;  and  the  grating  that 
opens  into  Amir  Nath's  Gully  has  been  walled  up. 

But  Trejago  pays  his  calls  regularly,  and  is 
reckoned  a  very  decent  sort  of  man. 

There  is  nothing  peculiar  about  him,  except  a 
slight  stiffness,  caused  by  a  riding-strain,  in  the 
right  leg. 


THE  GOD  FROM  THE  MACHINE 

Hit  a  man  an'  help  a  woman,  an'  ye  can't  be  far  wrong  any> 
ways, — Maxims  of  Private  Mulvaney. 

THE  Inexpressibles  gave  a  ball.  They  bor- 
rowed a  seven-pounder  from  the  Gunners, 
and  wreathed  it  with  laurels,  and  made  the  danc- 
ing-floor plate-glass  and  provided  a  supper,  the 
like  of  which  had  never  been  eaten  before,  and 
set  two  sentries  at  the  door  of  the  room  to  hold 
the  trays  of  programme-cards.  My  friend,  Pri- 
vate Mulvaney,  was  one  of  the  sentries,  because 
he  was  the  tallest  man  in  the  regiment.  When 
the  dance  was  fairly  started  the  sentries  were  re- 
leased, and  Private  Mulvaney  went  to  curry  favor 
with  the  Mess  Sergeant  in  charge  of  the  supper. 
Whether  the  Mess  Sergeant  gave  or  Mulvaney 
took,  I  cannot  say.  All  that  I  am  certain  of  is 
that,  at  supper-time,  I  found  Mulvaney  with  Pri- 
vate Ortheris,  two-thirds  of  a  ham,  a  loaf  of 
bread,  half  a  pdte-de-foie-gras,  and  two  mag- 
nums of  champagne,  sitting  on  the  roof  of  my 
carriage.     As  I  came  up  I  heard  him  saying  — 

"  Praise  be  a  danst  doesn't  come  as  often  as 
Ord'ly-room,   or,  by  this  an'  that,  Orth'ris,  me 
713 


714  .  Indian  Tales 

son,  I  wud  be  the  dishgrace  av  the  rig'mint  in- 
stid  av  the  brightest  jool  in  uts  crown." 

''Hand  the  Colonel's  pet  noosance,"  said  Or- 
theris.  "  But  wot  makes  you  curse  your  rations  ? 
This  'ere  fizzy  stuff's  good  enough." 

"Stuff,  ye  oncivilized  pagin!  'Tis  champagne 
we're  dhrinkin'  now.  'Tisn't  that  I  am  set  ag'in. 
'Tis  this  quare  stuff  wid  the  little  bits  av  black 
leather  in  it.  I  misdoubt  I  will  be  distressin'ly 
sick  wid  it  in  the  mornin'.     Fwhat  is  ut  ?  " 

"Goose  liver,"  I  said,  climbing  on  the  top  of 
the  carriage,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  better  to  sit 
out  with  Mulvaney  than  to  dance  many  dances. 

"  Goose  liver  is  ut .?  "  said  Mulvaney.  "  Faith, 
I'm  thinkin'  thim  that  makes  it  wud  do  betther 
to  cut  up  the  Colonel.  He  carries  a  power  av 
liver  undher  his  right  arrum  whin  the  days  are 
warm  an'  the  nights  chill.  He  wud  give  thim 
tons  an'  tons  av  liver.  'Tis  he  sez  so.  '  I'm  all 
liver  to-day,'  sez  he;  an'  wid  that  he  ordhers  me 
ten  days  C.  B.  for  as  moild  a  dhrink  as  iver  a 
good  sodger  took  betune  his  teeth." 

"  That  was  when  'e  wanted  for  to  wash  'isself 
in  the  Fort  Ditch,"  Ortheris  explained.  "Said 
there  was  too  much  beer  in  the  Barrack  water- 
butts  for  a  God-fearing  man.  You  was  lucky  in 
gettin'  orf  with  wot  you  did,  Mulvaney." 

"Say  you  so?  Now  I'm  pershuaded  I  was 
cruel  hard  trated,  seein'  fwhat  I've  done  for  the 


The  God  from  the  Machine  -^15 

likes  av  him  in  the  days  whin  my  eyes  were 
wider  opin  than  they  are  now.  Man  alive,  for 
the  Colonel  to  whip  me  on  the  peg  in  that  way! 
Me  that  have  saved  the  repitation  av  a  ten  times 
better  man  than  him!  'Twas  ne-farious — an' 
that  manes  a  power  av  evil!  " 

"Never  mind  the  nefariousness,"  I  said. 
"  Whose  reputation  did  you  save  ?" 

"More's  the  pity,  'twasn't  my  own,  but  I  tuk 
more  trouble  wid  ut  than  av  ut  was.  'Twas 
just  my  way,  messin'  wid  fwhat  was  no  business 
av  mine.  Hear  nowl"  He  settled  himself  at 
ease  on  the  top  of  the  carriage,  "  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  ut.  Av  coorse  1  will  name  no  names,  for 
there's  wan  that's  an  orf'cer's  lady  now,  that  was 
in  ut,  and  no  more  will  I  name  places,  for  a  man 
is  thracked  by  a  place." 

"Eyah!"  said  Ortheris,  lazily,  "but  this  is  a 
mixed  story  wot's  comin'." 

"  Wanst  upon  a  time,  as  the  childer-books  say, 
I  was  a  recruity." 

"Was  you  though?"  said  Ortheris;  "now 
that's  extryordinary !  " 

"Orth'ris,"  said  Mulvaney,  "av  you  opin  thim 
lips  av  yours  again,  I  will,  savin'  your  presince, 
sorr,  take  you  by  the  slack  av  your  trousers  an' 
heave  you." 

"I'm  mum,"  said  Ortheris.  "Wot  'appened 
when  you  was  a  recruitv  ?  " 


7i6  Indian  Tales 

"  I  was  a  betther  recruity  than  you  iver  was  or 
will  be,  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Thin  I 
became  a  man,  an'  the  divil  of  a  man  I  was  fifteen 
years  ago.  They  called  me  Buck  Mulvaney  in 
thim  days,  an',  begad,  1  tuk  a  woman's  eye.  I 
did  that!  Ortheris,  ye  scrub,  fwhat  are  ye  snig- 
gerin'  at  ?    Do  you  misdoubt  me  ?" 

"Devil  a  doubt!"  said  Ortheris;  "but  I've 
'card  summat  like  that  before!  " 

Mulvaney  dismissed  the  impertinence  with  a 
lofty  wave  of  his  hand  and  continued  — 

"An'  the  orfcers  av  the  rig'mint  I  was  in  in 
thim  days  was  orfcers — gran'  men,  wid  a  man- 
ner on  'em,  an'  a  way  wid  'em  such  as  is  not 
made  these  days — all  but  wan — wan  o'  the 
capt'ns.  A  bad  dhrill,  a  wake  voice,  an'  a  limp 
leg — thim  three  things  are  the  signs  av  a  bad 
man.  You  bear  that  in  your  mind,  Orth'ris,  me 
son. 

"An'  the  Colonel  av  the  rig'mint  had  a  daugh- 
ter— wan  av  thim.  lamblike,  bleatin',  pick-me-up- 
an'-carry-me-or-I'll-die  gurls  such  as  was  made 
for  the  natural  prey  av  men  like  the  Capt'n,  who 
was  iverlastin'  payin'  coort  to  her,  though  the 
Colonel  he  said  time  an'  over,  '  Kape  out  av  the 
brute's  way,  my  dear.'  But  he  niver  had  the 
heart  for  to  send  her  away  from  the  throuble, 
bein'  as  he  was  a  widower,  an'  she  their  wan 
child." 


The  God  from  the  Machine  717 

"Stop  a  minute,  Mulvaney,"  said  I;  "how  in 
the  world  did  you  come  to  know  these  things  ?" 

"How  did  1  come?"  said  Mulvaney,  with  a 
scornful  grunt;  "  bekaze  I'm  turned  durin'  the 
Quane's  pleasure  to  a  lump  av  wood,  lookin'  out 
straight  forninst  me,  wid  a — a — candelabbrum  in 
my  hand,  for  you  to  pick  your  cards  out  av,  must 
I  not  see  nor  feel?  Av  coorse  i  du!  Up  my 
back,  an'  in  my  boots,  an'  in  the  short  hair  av  the 
neck — that's  where  I  kape  my  eyes  whim  I'm  on 
duty  an'  the  reg'lar  wans  are  fixed.  Know! 
Take  my  word  for  it,  sorr,  ivrything  an'  a  great 
dale  more  is  known  in  a  rig'mint;  or  fwhat  wud 
be  the  use  av  a  Mess  Sargint,  or  a  Sargint's  wife 
doin'  wet-nurse  to  the  Major's  baby  ?  To  re- 
shume.  He  was  a  bad  dhrill  was  this  Capt'n — a 
rotten  bad  dhrill — an'  whin  first  1  ran  me  eye  over 
him,  1  sez  to  myself:  '  My  Militia  bantam! '  I  sez, 
'  My  cock  av  a  Gosport  dunghill ' — 'twas  from 
Portsmouth  he  came  to  us — '  there's  combs  to  be 
cut,'  sez  I,  'an'  by  the  grace  av  God,  'tis  Terence 
Mulvaney  will  cut  thim.' 

"So  he  wint  menowderin'.  and  minanderin', 
an'  blandandhering  roun'  an'  about  the  Colonel's 
daughter,  an'  she,  poor  innocint,  lookin'  at  him 
like  a  Comm'ssariat  bullock  looks  at  the  Comp'ny 
cook.  He'd  a  dhirty  little  scrub  av  a  black  mous- 
tache, an'  he  twisted  an'  turned  ivry  wurrd  he 
used  as  av  he  found  ut  too  sweet  for  to  spit  out. 


71 8  Indian  Tales 

Eyah!  He  was  a  tricky  man  an'  a  liar  by  natur'. 
Some  are  born  so.  He  was  wan.  I  knew  he 
was  over  his  belt  in  money  borrowed  from  na- 
tives; besides  a  lot  av  other  matthers  which,  in 
regard  for  your  presince,  sorr,  I  will  oblitherate. 
A  little  av  fwhat  1  knew,  the  Colonel  knew,  for 
he  wud  have  none  av  him,  an'  that,  I'm  thinkin', 
by  fwhat  happened  aftherward,  the  Capt'in  knew. 
"Wan  day,  bein'  mortial  idle,  or  they  wud 
never  ha'  thried  ut,  the  rig'mint  gave  amsure 
theatricals — orf'cers  an'  orf'cers'  ladies.  You've 
seen  the  likes  time  an'  again,  sorr,  an'  poor  fun 
'tis  for  them  that  sit  in  the  back  row  an'  stamp 
wid  their  boots  for  the  honor  av  the  rig'mint.  I 
was  told  off  for  to  shif  the  scenes,  haulin'  up  this 
an'  draggin'  down  that.  Light  work  ut  was,  wid 
lashins  av  beer  and  the  gurl  that  dhressed  the 
orf'cers'  ladies — but  she  died  in  Aggra  twelve 
years  gone,  an'  my  tongue's  gettin'  the  betther  av 
me.  They  was  actin'  a  play  thing  called  Sweet- 
hearts, which  you  may  ha'  heard  av,  an'  the 
Colonel's  daughter  she  was  a  lady's  maid.  The 
Capt'n  was  a  boy  called  Broom — Spread  Broom 
was  his  name  in  the  play.  Thin  I  saw — ut  come 
out  in  the  actin' — fwhat  I  niver  saw  before,  an' 
that  was  that  he  was  no  gentleman.  They  was 
too  much  together,  thim  two,  a-whishperin'  be- 
hind the  scenes  I  shifted,  an'  some  av  what  they 
said  1  heard;  for  I  was  death — blue  death  an'  ivy 


The  God  from  the  Machine  719 

— on  the  comb-cuttin'.  He  was  iverlastin'ly  op- 
pressing her  to  fall  in  wid  some  sneakin'  schame 
av  his,  an'  she  was  thryin'  to  stand  out  against 
him,  but  not  as  though  she  was  set  in  her  will. 
I  wonder  now  in  thim  days  that  my  ears  did  not 
grow  a  yard  on  me  head  wid  list'nin'.  But  I 
looked  straight  forninst  me  an'  hauled  up  this  an' 
dragged  down  that,  such  as  was  my  duty,  an' 
the  orf  cers'  ladies  sez  one  to  another,  thinkin'  I 
was  out  av  listen-reach:  '  Fwhat  an  obiigin' 
3'oung  man  is  this  Corp'ril  Mulvaney!'  I  was  a 
Corp'ril  then.  I  was  rejuced  aftherward,  but,  no 
matther,  1  was  a  Corp'ril  wanst. 

"Well,  this  Sweethearts'  business  wint  on  like 
most  amshure  theatricals,  an'  barrin'  fwhat  1  sus- 
picioned,  'twasn't  till  the  dhress-rehearsal  that  1 
saw  for  certain  that  thim  two — he  the  black- 
guard, an'  she  no  wiser  than  she  should  ha'  been 
— had  put  up  an  evasion." 

"A  what?'"'  said  I. 

"E-vasion!  Fwhat  you  call  an  elopemint. 
E-vasion  I  calls  it,  bekaze,  exceptin'  whin  'tis 
right  an'  natural  an'  proper,  'tis  wrong  an'  dhirty 
to  steal  a  man's  wan  child  she  not  knowin'  her 
own  mind.  There  was  a  Sargint  in  the  Com- 
m'ssariat  who  set  my  face  upon  e-vasions.  I'll 
tell  you  about  that " — 

"Stick  to  the  bloomin'  Captains,  Mulvaney," 
said  Ortheris;  "  Comm'ssariat  Sargints  is  low." 


720  Indian   Tales 

Mulvaney  accepted  the  amendment  and  went 
on:  — 

"Now  I  knew  that  the  Colonel  was  no  fool, 
any  more  than  me,  for  1  was  hild  the  sm.artest 
man  in  the  rig'mint,  an'  the  Colonel  was  the  best 
orfcer  commandin'  in  Asia;  so  fwhat  he  said  an' 
/  said  was  a  mortial  truth.  We  knew  that  the 
Capt'n  was  bad,  but,  for  reasons  which  I  have 
already  oblitherated,  I  knew  more  than  me  Colo- 
nel. I  wud  ha'  rolled  out  his  face  wid  the  butt 
av  my  gun  before  permittin'  av  him  to  steal  the 
gurl.  Saints  knew  av  he  wud  ha'  married  her, 
and  av  he  didn't  she  wud  be  in  great  tormint,  an' 
the  divil  av  a  'scandal.'  But  I  niver  sthruck, 
niver  raised  me  hand  on  my  shuperior  orfcer;  an* 
that  was  a  merricle  now  I  come  to  considher  it." 

"Mulvaney,  the  dawn's  risin',"  said  Ortheris, 
"an'  we're  no  nearer  'ome  than  we  was  at  the 
beginnin'.  Lend  me  your  pouch.  Mine's  all 
dust." 

Mulvaney  pitched  his  pouch  over,  and  filled 
his  pipe  afresh. 

"So  the  dhress-rehearsal  came  to  an  end,  an', 
bekaze  I  was  curious,  I  stayed  behind  whin  the 
scene-shiftin'  was  ended,  an'  I  shud  ha'  been  in 
barricks,  lyin'  as  flat  as  a  toad  under  a  painted 
cottage  thing.  They  was  •  talkin'  in  whispers, 
an'  she  was  shiverin'  an'  gaspin'  like  a  fresh- 
hukked  fish.     '  Are  you  sure  you've  got  the  hang 


The  God  from  the  Machine  721 

av  the  manewvers  ? '  sez  he,  or  wurrds  to  that 
effec',  as  the  coort-martial  sez.  'Sure  as  death,' 
sez  she,  '  but  I  misdoubt  'tis  cruel  hard  on  my 
father.'  'Damn  your  father,'  sez  he,  or  anyways 
'twas  fwhat  he  thought,  '  the  arrangement  is  as 
clear  as  mud.  Jungi  will  drive  the  carri'ge  afther 
all's  over,  an'  you  come  to  the  station,  cool  an' 
aisy,  in  time  for  the  two  o'clock  thrain,  where 
I'll  be  wid  your  kit.'  '  Faith,'  thinks  I  to  myself, 
'thin  there's  a  ayah  in  the  business  tu! ' 

"  A  powerful  bad  thing  is  a  ayah.  Don't  you 
niver  have  any  thruck  wid  wan.  Thin  he  began 
sootherin'  her,  an'  ail  the  orf'cers  an'  orf'cers' 
ladies  left,  an'  they  put  out  the  liglits.  To  ex- 
plain the  theory  av  the  flight,  as  they  say  at 
Muskthry,  you  must  understand  that  afther  this 
Sweethearts'  nonsinse  was  ended,  there  was  an- 
other little  bit  av  a  play  called  Couples, — some 
kind  av  couple  or  another.  The  gurl  was  actin' 
in  this,  but  not  the  man.  I  suspicioned  he'd  go 
to  the  station  wid  the  gurl's  kit  at  the  end  av  the 
first  piece.  Twas  the  kit  that  flusthered  me,  for 
I  knew  for  a  Capt'n  to  go  trapesing  about  the  im- 
pire  wid  the  Lord  knew  what  av  a  truso  on  his 
arrum  was  nefarious,  an'  wud  be  worse  than 
easin'  the  flag,  so  far  as  the  talk  aftherward 
wint." 

"'Old  on,  Mulvaney.  Wot's  truso}"  said 
Ortheris. 


722  Indian  Tales 

"You're  an  oncivilized  man,  me  son.  Whin 
a  gurl's  married,  all  her  kit  an'  'coutrements  are 
truso,  which  manes  weddin'-portion.  An'  'tis  the 
same  whin  she's  runnin'  away,  even  wid  the 
biggest  blackguard  on  the  Arrmy  List. 

"  So  I  made  my  plan  av  campaign.  The 
Colonel's  house  was  a  good  two  miles  away. 
'Dennis,'  sez  I  to  my  color-sargint,  '  av  you 
love  me  lend  me  your  kyart,  for  me  heart  is  bruk 
an'  me  feet  is  sore  wid  trampin'  to  and  from  this 
foolishness  at  the  Gaff.'  An'  Dennis  lent  ut,  wid 
a  rampin',  stampin'  red  stallion  in  the  shafts. 
Whin  they  was  all  settled  down  to  their  Sweet- 
hearts for  the  first  scene,  which  was  a  long  wan, 
I  slips  outside  and  into  the  kyart.  Mother  av 
Hivin!  but  I  made  that  horse  walk,  an'  we  came 
into  the  Colonel's  compound  as  the  divil  wint 
through  Athlone — in  standin'  leps.  There  was 
no  one  there  excipt  the  servints,  an'  1  wint  round 
to  the  back  an'  found  the  girl's  ayah. 

"  *  Ye  black  brazen  Jezebel,'  sez  I,  '  sellin'  your 
masther's  honor  for  five  rupees — pack  up  all 
the  Miss  Sahib's  kit  an'  look  slippy!  Capt'n 
Sahib's  order,'  sez  I.  'Going  to  the  station  we 
are,'  I  sez,  an'  wid  that  I  laid  my  finger  to  my 
nose  an'  looked  the  schamin'  sinner  I  was. 

"  '  Bote  acchy*  says  she;  so  I  knew  she  was  in 
the  business,  an'  I  piled  up  all  the  sweet  talk  I'd 
iver  learned  in  the  bazars  on  to  this  she-bullock. 


The  God  from  the  Machine  723 

an'  prayed  av  her  to  put  all  the  quick  she  knew 
into  the  thing.  While  she  packed,  I  stud  outside 
an'  sweated,  for  I  was  wanted  for  to  shif  the 
second  scene.  I  tell  you,  a  young  gurl's  e-vasion 
manes  as  much  baggage  as  a  rig'mint  on  the 
line  av  march!  'Saints  help  Dennis's  springs,' 
thinks  I,  as  1  bundled  the  stuff  into  the  thrap, 
'  for  I'll  have  no  mercy! ' 

"  '  I'm  comin'  too,'  says  the  ayah. 

"'No,  you  don't,'  sez  1,  'later — pechy!  You 
baito  where  you  are.  I'll  pechy  come  an'  bring 
you  sart,  along  with  me,  you  maraudin' ' — niver 
mind  fwhat  I  called  her. 

"Thin  1  wint  for  the  Gaff,  an'  by  the  special 
ordher  av  Providence,  for  I  was  doin'  a  good 
work  you  will  ondersthand,  Dennis's  springs  hild 
toight.  'Now,  whin  the  Capt'n  goes  for  that 
kit,'  thinks  I,  '  he'll  be  throubled.'  At  the  end  av 
Sweethearts  off  the  Capt'n  runs  in  his  kyart  to  the 
Colonel's  house,  an'  1  sits  down  on  the  steps  and 
laughs.  Wanst  an'  again  I  slipped  in  to  see  how 
the  little  piece  was  goin',  an'  whin  ut  was  near 
endin'  I  stepped  out  all  among  the  carriages  an' 
Sings  out  very  softly,  'Jungi!'  Wid  that  a  car- 
r'ge  began  to  move,  an'  I  waved  to  the  dhriver. 
'  Hither aol'  sez  1,  an'  he  hifheraoed  t\\\  I  judged 
Me  was  at  proper  distance,  an'  thin  I  tuk  him,  fair 
rm'  square  betune  the  eyes,  all  I  knew  for  good 
or  bad,  an'  he  dhropped  wid  a  guggle  like  the 


724  Indian   Tales 

canteen  beer-engine  whin  ut's  runnin'  low.  Thin 
I  ran  to  the  kyart  an'  tuk  out  all  the  kit  an'  piled 
it  into  the  carr'ge,  the  sweat  runnin'  down  my 
face  in  dhrops.  'Go  home,'  sez  I,  to  the  sais ; 
'you'll  find  a  man  close  here.  Very  sick  he  is. 
Take  him  away,  an'  av  you  iver  say  wan  wurrd 
about  fwhat  you've  dekkoed,  I'll  marrow  you  till 
your  own  wife  won't  sumjao  who  you  are!' 
Thin  I  heard  the  stampin'  av  feet  at  the  ind  av 
the  play,  an'  I  ran  in  to  let  down  the  curtain. 
Whin  they  all  came  out  the  gurl  thried  to  hide 
herself  behind  wan  av  the  pillars,  an'  sez  '  Jungi '  in 
a  voice  that  wouldn't  ha'  scared  a  hare.  I  run  over 
to  Jungi's  carr'ge  an'  tuk  up  the  lousy  old  horse- 
blanket  on  the  box,  wrapped  my  head  an'  the 
rest  av  me  in  ut,  an'  dhrove  up  to  where  she  was. 

"  'Miss  Sahib,'  sez  I  ;  'going  to  the  station.? 
Captain  Sahib's  order!'  an'  widout  a  sign  she 
jumped  in  all  among  her  own  kit. 

"  I  laid  to  an'  dhruv  like  steam  to  the  Colonel's 
house  before  the  Colonel  was  there,  an'  she 
screamed  an'  I  thought  she  was  goin'  off.  Out 
comes  the  ayah,  saying  all  sorts  av  things  about 
the  Capt'n  havin'  come  for  the  kit  an'  gone  to  the 
station. 

"  'Take  out  the  luggage,  you  divil,'  sez  I,  'or 
I'll  murther  you!' 

"The  lights  av  the  thraps  people  comin'  from 
the  Gaff  was  showin'  across  the  parade  ground. 


The  God  from  the  Machine  725 

an',  by  this  an'  that,  the  way  thim  two  women 
worked  at  the  bundles  an"  thrunks  was  a  caution! 
I  was  dyin'  to  help,  but,  seein'  I  didn't  want  to 
be  known,  I  sat  wid  the  blanket  roun'  me  an* 
coughed  an'  thanked  the  Saints  there  was  no 
moon  that  night. 

"Whin  all  was  in  the  house  again,  I  niver 
asked  for  bukshish  but  dhruv  tremenjus  in  the 
opp'site  way  from  the  other  carr'ge  an'  put  out 
my  lights.  Presintly,  I  saw  a  naygur-man  wal- 
lowin'  in  the  road.  1  slipped  down  before  I  got 
to  him,  for  I  suspicioned  Providence  was  wid  me 
all  through  that  night.  'Twas  Jungi,  his  nose 
smashed  in  flat,  all  dumb  sick  as  you  please. 
Dennis's  man  must  have  tilted  him  out  av  the 
thrap.  Whin  he  came  to,  'Hutt!'  sez  I,  but  he 
began  to  howl. 

"  '  You  black  lump  av  dirt,'  I  sez,  'is  this  the 
way  you  dhrive  your  gharri?  That  tikka  has 
been  owin'  an'  fere-owin'  all  over  the  bloomin' 
country  this  whole  bloomin'  night,  an'  you  as 
miit-'walla  as  Davey's  sow.  Get  up,  you  hog!' 
sez  I,  louder,  for  I  heard  the  wheels  av  a  thrap  in 
the  dark;  'get  up  an*  light  your  lamps,  or  you'll 
be  run  into! '  This  was  on  the  road  to  the  Rail- 
way Station. 

"'Fwhat  the  divil's  this?'  sez  the  Capt'n's 
voice  in  the  dhark,  an'  1  could  judge  he  was  in  a 
lather  av  rage. 


726  Indian   Tales 

"'Gharri  dhriver  here,  dhrunk,  sorr,' sez  I; 
'I've  found  his  gharri  sthrayin'  about  canton- 
tnints,  an'  now  I've  found  hiin.' 

"'Oh!'  sez  the  Capt'n;  'fwhat's  his  name?' 
I  stooped  down  an'  pretended  to  listen. 

"  '  He  sez  his  name's  Jungi,  sorr,'  sez  I. 

"'Hould  my  harse,'  sez  the  Capt'n  to  his 
man,  an'  wid  that  he  gets  down  wid  the  whip 
an'  lays  into  Jungi,  just  mad  wid  rage  an' 
swearin'  like  the  scutt  he  was. 

"  I  thought,  afther  a  while,  he  wud  kill  the 
man,  so  I  sez: — 'Stop,  sorr,  or  you'll  murdher 
him!'  That  dhrew  all  his  fire  on  me,  an'  he 
cursed  me  into  Blazes,  an'  out  again.  I  stud  to 
attenshin  an'  saluted: — 'Sorr,'  sez  I,  'av  ivry  man 
in  this  wurruld  had  his  rights,  I'm  thinkin'  that 
more  than  wan  wud  be  beaten  to  a  jelly  for  this 
night's  work — that  niver  came  off  at  all,  sorr,  as 
you  see?'  'Now,'  thinks  I  to  myself,  'Terence 
Mulvaney,  you've  cut  your  own  throat,  for  he'll 
sthrike,  an'  you'll  knock  him  down  for  the  good 
av  his  sowl  an'  your  own  iverlastin'  dishgrace!' 

"But  the  Capt'n  never  said  a  single  wurrd. 
He  choked  where  he  stud,  an'  thin  he  went  into 
his  thrap  widout  sayin'  good-night,  an'  I  wint 
back  to  barricks." 

"And  then  ?"  said  Ortheris  and  1  together. 

"That  was  all,"  said  Mulvaney,  "niver  an- 
other word  did  I  hear  av  the  whole  thing.     All  I 


The  God  from  the  Machine  727 

know  was  that  there  was  no  e-vasion,  an'  that 
was  fwhat  I  wanted.  Now,  I  put  ut  to  you, 
sorr,  h  ten  days'  C.B.  a  fit  an'  a  proper  trate- 
ment  for  a  man  who  has  behaved  as  me  ?" 

"Well,  any'ow,"  said  Ortheris,  "  tweren't  this 
'ere  Colonel's  daughter,  an'  you  -was  blazin'  copped 
when  you  tried  to  wash  in  the  Fort  Ditch." 

"That,"  said  Mulvaney,  finishing  the  cham- 
pagne, "  is  a  shuparfluous  an'  impert'nint  obser- 
vation'* 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE 
REGIMENT 

Jain  'Ardin'  was  a  Sarjint's  wife, 

A  Sarjint's  wife  wus  she. 
She  married  of  'im  in  Orldersliort 

An'  corned  across  the  sea. 
(^Chorus)  'Ave  you  never  'card  tell  o'  Jain  'Ardin'? 

Jain  'Ardin'  r 
Jain  'Ardin'  ? 
'Ave  you  never  'eard  tell  o'  Jain  'Ardin'  ? 
The  pride  o'  the  Compan^if  ? 

Old  Barrack  Room  Ballad. 


i'  A  GENTLEMAN  who  doesn't  know  the 
t\  Circasian  Circle  ought  not  to  stand  up 
for  it — puttin'  everybody  out."  That  was  what 
Miss  McKenna  said,  and  the  Sergeant  who  was 
my  vis-a-vis  looked  the  same  thing.  I  was  afraid 
of  Miss  McKenna.  She  was  six  feet  high,  all  yel- 
low freckles  and  red  hair,  and  was  simply  clad  in 
white  satin  shoes,  a  pink  muslin  dress,  an  apple- 
green  stuff  sash,  and  black  silk  gloves,  with  yel- 
low roses  in  her  hair.  Wherefore  I  fled  from 
Miss  McKenna  and  sought  my  friend  Private 
Mulvaney,  who  was  at  the  cant — refreshment- 
table. 

"  So  you've  been  dancin'  with  little  Jhansi  Mc- 
72S 


The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  729 

Kenna,  sorr — she  that's  goin'  to  marry  Corp'ril 
Slane  ?  Whin  you  next  conversh  wid  your  lor- 
ruds  an'  your  ladies,  tell  thim  you've  danced  wid 
little  Jhansi,     'Tis  a  thing  to  be  proud  av," 

But  I  wasn't  proud.  1  was  humble.  I  saw  a 
story  in  Private  Mulvaney's  eye;  and  besides,  if 
he  stayed  too  long  at  the  bar,  he  would,  1  knew, 
qualify  for  more  pack-drill.  Now  to  meet  an  es- 
teemed friend  doing  pack-drill  outside  the  guard- 
room is  embarrassing,  especially  if  you  happen 
to  be  walking  with  his  Commanding  Officer. 

"Come  on  to  the  parade-ground,  Mulvaney, 
it's  cooler  there,  and  tell  me  about  Miss  McKenna. 
What  is  she,  and  who  is  she,  and  why  is  she 
called  'Jhansi '?" 

"  D'ye  mane  to  say  you've  niver  heard  av  Ould 
Pummeloe's  daughter?  An'  you  thinkin'  you 
know  things!  I'm  wid  ye  in  a  minut  whin  me 
poipe's  lit." 

We  came  out  under  the  stars.  Mulvaney  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  artillery  bridges,  and  began 
in  the  usual  way:  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  his 
big  hands  clasped  and  dropped  between  his 
knees,  and  his  cap  well  on  the  back  of  his  head  — 

"  Whin  Mrs.  Mulvaney,  that  is,  was  Miss  Shadd 
that  was,  you  were  a  dale  younger  than  you  are 
now,  an'  the  Army  was  dif'rint  in  sev'ril  e-sen- 
shuls.  Bhoys  have  no  call  for  to  marry  nowa- 
days, an'  that's  why  the  Army  has  so  few  rale. 


730  Indian  Tales 

good,  honust,  swearin',  strapagin',  tinder-hearted, 
heavy-futted  wives  as  ut  used  to  have  whin  I  was 
a  Corp'ril.  I  was  rejuced  aftherward — but  no 
matther — I  was  a  Corp'ril  wanst.  In  thim  times, 
a  man  lived  an'  died  wid  his  regiment;  an'  by 
natur',  he  married  whin  he  was  a  man.  Whin  I 
was  Corp'ril — Mother  av  Hivin,  how  the  rigimint 
has  died  an'  been  borrun  since  that  day! — my 
Color-Sar'jint  was  Ould  McKenna,  an'  a  married 
man  tu.  An'  his  woife — his  first  woife,  for  he 
married  three  times  did  McKenna — was  Bridget 
McKenna,  from  Portarlington,  like  mesilf.  I've 
misremembered  fwhat  her  first  name  was;  but 
in  B  Comp'ny  we  called  her  'Ould  Pummeloe,' 
by  reason  av  her  figure,  which  was  entirely  cir- 
cum-fe-renshill.  Like  the  big  dhrum !  Now  that 
woman — God  rock  her  sowl  to  rest  in  glory! — 
was  for  everlastin'  havin'  childher;  an'  McKenna, 
whin  the  fifth  or  sixth  come  squallin'  on  to  the 
musther-roll,  swore  he  wud  number  thim  off  in 
future.  But  Ould  Pummeloe  she  prayed  av  him 
to  christen  them  after  the  names  av  the  stations 
they  was  borrun  in.  So  there  was  Colaba  Mc- 
Kenna, an'  Muttra  McKenna,  an'  a  whole  Presi- 
dincy  av  other  McKennas,  an'  little  Jhansi, 
dancin'  over  yonder.  Whin  the  childher  wasn't 
bornin',  they  was  dying;  for,  av  our  childher  die 
like  sheep  in  these  days,  they  died  like  flies 
thin.     I  lost  me  own  little  Shadd — but  no  mat- 


The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  731 

then  Tis  long  ago,  and  Mrs.  Mulvaney  niver 
had  another. 

"I'm  digresshin.  Wan  divil's  hot  summer, 
there  come  an  order  from  some  mad  ijjit,  whose 
name  I  misremember,  for  the  rigimint  to  go  up- 
country.  Maybe  they  wanted  to  know  how  the 
new  rail  carried  throops.  They  knew!  On  me 
sowl,  they  knew  before  they  was  done!  Old 
Pumm.eloe  had  just  buried  Muttra  McKenna;  an', 
the  season  bein'  onwholesim,  only  little  Jhansi 
McKenna,  who  was  four  year  ould  thin,  was  left 
on  hand. 

"  Five  children  gone  in  fourteen  months. 
Twas  harrd,  wasn't  ut  ? 

"  So  we  wint  up  to  our  new  station  in  that 
blazin'  heat — may  the  curse  av  Saint  Lawrence 
conshume  the  man  who  gave  the  ordher!  Will  I 
iver  forget  that  move  }  They  gave  us  two  wake 
thrains  to  the  rigimint;  an'  we  was  eight  hun- 
dher'  and  sivinty  strong.  There  was  A,  B,  C,  an' 
D  Companies  in  the  secon'  thrain,  wid  twelve 
women,  no  orficers'  ladies,  an'  thirteen  childher. 
We  was  to  go  six  hundher'  miles,  an'  railways 
was  new  in  thim  days.  Whin  we  had  been  a 
night  in  the  belly  av  the  thrain — the  men  ragin' 
in  their  shirts  an'  dhrinkin'  anything  they  cud 
find,  an'  eatin'  bad  fruit-stuff  whin  they  cud,  for 
we  cudn't  stop  'em — I  was  a  Corp'ril  thin — the 
cholera  bruk  out  wid  the  dawnin'  av  the  day. 


732  Indian  Tales 

"  Pray  to  the  Saints,  you  may  niver  see  cholera 
in  a  throop-thrain!  'Tis  like  the  judgmint  av 
God  hittin'  down  from  the  nakid  sky!  We  run 
into  a  rest-camp — as  ut  might  have  been  Lu- 
dianny,  but  not  by  any  means  so  comfortable. 
The  Orficer  Commandin'  sent  a  telegrapt  up  the 
line,  three  hundher'  mile  up,  askin'  for  help. 
Faith,  we  wanted  ut,  for  ivry  sowl  av  the  fol- 
lowers ran  for  the  dear  life  as  soon  as  the  thrain 
stopped;  an'  by  the  time  that  telegrapt  was  writ, 
there  wasn't  a  naygur  in  the  station  exceptin'  the 
telegrapt-clerk — an'  he  only  bekaze  he  was  held 
down  to  his  chair  by  the  scruff  av  his  sneakin' 
black  neck.  Thin  the  day  began  wid  the  noise 
in  the  carr'ges,  an'  the  rattle  av  the  men  on  the 
platform  fallin'  over,  arms  an'  all,  as  they  stud 
for  to  answer  the  Comp'ny  muster-roll  before 
goin'  over  to  the  camp.  'Tisn't  for  me  to  say 
what  like  the  cholera  was  like.  May  be  the  Doc- 
tor cud  ha'  tould,  av  he  hadn't  dropped  on  to  the 
platform  from  the  door  av  a  carriage  where  we 
was  takin'  out  the  dead.  He  died  wid  the  rest. 
Some  bhoys  had  died  in  the  night.  We  tuk  out 
siven,  and  twenty  more  was  sickenin'  as  we  tuk 
thim.  The  women  was  huddled  up  anyways, 
screamin'  wid  fear. 

"  Sez  the  Commandin'  Orficer  whose  name  I 
misremember,    '  Take   the   women   over   to   that 


The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  733 

tope  av  trees  yonder.  Get  thim  out  av  the  camp. 
'Tis  no  place  for  thim.' 

"Ould  Pummeloe  was  sittin'  on  her  beddin'- 
rowl,  thryin'  to  kape  httle  Jhansi  quiet.  '  Go  off 
to  that  tope!'  sez  the  Orficer.  'Go  out  av  the 
men's  way! ' 

"'Be  damned  av  I  do!'  sez  Ould  Pummeloe, 
an'  little  Jhansi,  squattin'  by  her  mother's  side, 
squeaks  out,  'Be  damned  av  I  do,'  tu.  Thin 
Ould  Pummeloe  turns  to  the  women  an'  she  sez, 
'  Are  ye  goin'  to  let  the  bhoys  die  while  you're 
picnickin',  ye  sluts  ? '  sez  she.  '  'Tis  wather  they 
want.     Come  on  an'  help.' 

"  Wid  that,  she  turns  up  her  sleeves  an'  steps 
out  for  a  well  behind  the  rest-camp — little  Jhansi 
trottin'  behind  wid  a  lotah  an'  string,  an'  the 
other  women  followin'  like  lambs,  wid  horse- 
buckets  and  cookin'  pots.  Whin  all  the  things 
was  full,  Ould  Pummeloe  marches  back  into 
camp — 'twas  like  a  battlefield  wid  all  the  glory 
missin' — at  the  hid  av  the  rigimint  av  women. 

" '  McKenna,  me  man!'  she  sez,  wid  a  voice 
on  her  like  grand-roun's  challenge,  '  tell  the  bhoys 
to  be  quiet.  Ould  Pummeloe's  comin'  to  look 
afther  thim — wid  free  dhrinks,' 

"Thin  we  cheered,  an'  the  cheerin'  in  the  lines 
was  louder  than  the  noise  av  the  poor  divils  wid 
the  sickness  on  thim.     But  not  much. 

"You  see,  we  was  a  new  an'  raw  rigimint  in 


734  Indian   Tales 

those  days,  an'  we  cud  make  neither  head  nor 
tail  av  the  sickness;  an'  so  we  was  useless.  The 
men  was  goin'  roun'  an'  about  like  dumb  sheep, 
waitin'  for  the  nex'  man  to  fall  over,  an'  sayin' 
undher  their  spache,  '  Fwhat  is  ut  ?  In  the  name 
av  God,  fwhat  is  ut?'  'Twas  horrible.  But 
through  ut  all,  up  an'  down,  an'  down  an'  up, 
wint  Ould  Pummeloe  an'  little  Jhansi — all  we  cud 
see  av  the  baby,  undher  a  dead  man's  helmut  wid 
the  chin-strap  swingin'  about  her  little  stummick 
— up  an'  down  wid  the  wather  an'  fwhat  brandy 
there  was. 

"Now  an'  thin  Ould  Pummeloe,  the  tears  run- 
nin'  down  her  fat,  red  face,  sez,  '  Me  bhoys,  me 
poor,  dead,  darlin'  bhoys!'  But,  for  the  most, 
she  was  thryin'  to  put  heart  into  the  men  an'  kape 
thim  stiddy;  and  little  Jhansi  was  tellin'  thim  all 
they  wud  be  'betther  in  the  mornin'.'  'Twas  a 
thrick  she'd  picked  up  from  hearin'  Ould  Pum- 
meloe whin  Muttra  was  burnin'  out  wid  fever. 
In  the  mornin'!  'Twas  the  iverlastin'  mornin'  at 
St.  Pether's  Gate  was  the  mornin'  for  seven-an'- 
twenty  good  men;  and  twenty  more  was  sick  to 
the  death  in  that  bitter,  burnin'  sun.  But  the 
women  worked  like  angils  as  I've  said,  an'  the 
men  like  divils,  till  two  doctors  come  down  from 
above,  and  we  was  rescued. 

"  But,  just  before  that,  Ould  Pummeloe,  on  her 
knees  over  a  bhoy  in  my  squad — right-cot  man  to 


The  Daughter  of  the  Regment  735 

me  he  was  in  the  barrick— tellin'  him  the  worrud 
av  the  Church  that  niver  failed  a  man  yet,  sez, 
'Hould  me  up,  bhoys!  I'm  feelin'  bloody  sick!' 
Twas  the  sun,  not  the  cholera,  did  ut.  She  mis- 
remembered  she  was  only  wearin'  her  ould  black 
bonnet,  an'  she  died  wid  '  McKenna,  me  man,' 
houldin'  her  up,  an'  the  bhoys  howled  whin  they 
buried  her. 

"That  night,  a  big  wind  blew,  an'  blew,  an' 
blew,  an'  blew  the  tents  flat.  But  it  blew  the 
cholera  away  an'  niver  another  case  there  was  all 
the  while  we  was  waitin' — ten  days  in  quarintin'. 
Av  you  will  belave  me,  the  thrack  av  the  sickness 
in  the  camp  was  for  all  the  wurruld  the  thrack  av 
a  man  walkin'  four  times  in  a  figur-av-eight 
through  the  tents.  They  say  'tis  the  Wandherin' 
Jew  takes  the  cholera  wid  him.     I  believe  ut. 

"An'  that,"  said  Mulvaney,  illogically,  "is  the 
cause  why  little  Jhansi  McKenna  is  f  what  she  is. 
She  was  brought  up  by  the  Quartermaster 
Sergeant's  wife  whin  McKenna  died,  but  she 
b'longs  to  B  Comp'ny;  and  this  tale  I'm  tellin' 
you — ziid  a  proper  appreciashin  av  Jhansi  Mc- 
Kenna— I've  belted  into  ivry  recruity  av  the  Com- 
p'ny as  he  was  drafted.  'Faith,  'twas  me  belted 
Corp'ril  Slane  into  askin'  the  girl!" 

"Not  really?" 

"Man,  I  did!  She's  no  beauty  to  look  at,  but 
she's  Ould  Pummeloe's  daughter,  an'  'tis  my  juty 


736  Indian   Tales 

to  provide  for  her.  Just  before  Slane  got  his 
promotion  I  sez  to  him,  'Slane,'  sez  I,  'to-mor- 
row 'twill  be  insubordinashin  av  me  to  chastise 
you;  but.  by  the  sowl  av  Ould  Pummeloe,  who 
is  now  in  glory,  av  you  don't  give  me  your 
wurrud  to  ask  Jhansi  McKenna  at  wanst,  I'll 
peel  the  flesh  off  yer  bones  wid  a  brass  huk  to- 
night. 'Tis  a  dishgrace  to  B  Comp'ny  she's  been 
single  so  long! '  sez  I.  Was  I  goin'  to  let  a  three- 
year-ould  preshume  to  discoorse  wid  me — my 
will  bein'  set?  No!  Slane  wint  an'  asked  her. 
He's  a  good  bhoy  is  Slane.  Wan  av  these  days 
he'll  get  into  the  Com'ssariat  an'  dhrive  a  buggy 
wid  his — savin's.  So  I  provided  for  Ould  Pum- 
meloe's  daughter;  an'  now  you  go  along  an' 
dance  agin  wid  her." 

And  I  did. 

I  felt  a  respect  for  Miss  Jhansi  McKenna;  and 
I  went  to  her  wedding  later  on. 

Perhaps  I  will  tell  you  about  that  one  of  these 
days. 


THE   MADNESS    OF    PRIVATE 
ORTHERIS 

Oh !  Where  would  I  be  when  my  froat  was  dry  ? 

Oh !  Where  would  I  be  when  the  bullets  fly  ? 

Oh !  Where  would  I  be  when  I  come  to  die  ? 
Why, 

Somewheres  anigh  my  chum. 

If  'e's  liquor  'e'll  give  me  some. 
If  I'm  dyin'  'e'll  'old  my  'ead, 
An'  'e'll  write  'em  'Ome  when  I'm  dead- 
Gawd  send  us  a  trusty  chum ! 

Barrack  Room  Ballad. 

MY  friends  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  had  gone 
on  a  shooting-expedition  for  one  day. 
Learoyd  was  still  in  hospital,  recovering  from 
fever  picked  up  in  Burma.  They  sent  me  an  in- 
vitation to  join  them,  and  were  genuinely  pained 
when  I  brought  beer — almost  enough  beer  to 
satisfy  two  Privates  of  the  Line  .  .  .  and 
Me. 

"Twasn't  for  that  we  bid  you  welkim,  sorr," 
said  Mulvaney,  sulkily.  "Twas  for  the  pleasure 
av  your  comp'ny." 

Ortheris  came  to  the  rescue  with — "Well,  'e 
won't  be  none  the  worse  for  bringin'  liquor  with 
'im.  We  ain't  a  file  o'  Dooks.  We're  bloomin' 
737 


738  Indian  Tales 

Tommies,  ye  cantankris  Hirishman;  an'  'eres  your 
very  good  'ealth!  " 

We  shot  all  the  forenoon,  and  killed  two 
pariah-dogs,  four  green  parrots,  sitting,  one  kite 
by  the  burning-ghaut,  one  snake  flying,  one  mud- 
turtle,  and  eight  crows.  Game  was  plentiful. 
Then  we  sat  down  to  tiffin — "  bull-mate  an'  bran- 
bread,"  Mulvaney  called  it — by  the  side  of  the 
river,  and  took  pot  shots  at  the  crocodiles  in  the 
intervals  of  cutting  up  the  food  with  our  only 
pocket-knife.  Then  we  drank  up  all  the  beer, 
and  threw  the  bottles  into  the  water  and  fired  at 
them.  After  that,  we  eased  belts  and  stretched 
ourselves  on  the  warm  sand  and  smoked.  We 
were  too  lazy  to  continue  shooting. 

Ortheris  heaved  a  big  sigh,  as  he  lay  on  his 
stomach  with  his  head  between  his  fists.  Then 
he  swore  quietly  into  the  blue  sky. 

"Fwhat's  that  for .^"  said  Mulvaney.  "Have 
ye  not  drunk  enough  ?" 

"  Tott'nim  Court  Road,  an'  a  gal  I  fancied  there. 
Wofs  the  good  of  sodgerin'  ?" 

"Orth'ris,  me  son,"  said  Mulvaney,  hastily, 
"  'tis  more  than  likely  you've  got  throuble  in  your 
inside  wid  the  beer.  I  feel  that  way  mesilf  whin 
my  liver  gets  rusty." 

Ortheris  went  on  slowly,  not  heeding  the  in- 
terruption— 

"  I'm  a  Tommy — a  bloomin',  eight-anna,  dog- 


The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris  739 

stealin'  Tommy,  with  a  number  instead  of  a  de- 
cent name.  Wot's  the  good  o'  me  ?  If  I  'ad  a 
stayed  at  'Ome,  I  might  a  married  that  gal  and  a 
kep'  a  little  shorp  in  the  'Ammersmith  'Igh. — 'S. 
Orth'ris,  Prac-ti-cal  Taxi-der-mist.'  With  a  stuff' 
fox,  like  they  'as  in  the  Haylesbury  Dairies,  in  the 
winder,  an'  a  little  case  of  blue  and  yaller  glass- 
heyes,  an'  a  little  wife  to  call  'shorp I'  'shorp!' 
when  the  door-bell  rung.  As  it  his,  I'm  on'y 
a  Tommy — a  Bloomin',  Gawd-forsaken,  Beer- 
swillin'  Tommy.  '  Rest  on  your  harms — 'versed, 
Stan'  at — hease  ;  'Shun.  'Verse — harms.  Right 
an'lef — tarrn.  Slow — march.  'A\i— front.  Rest 
on  your  harms — 'versed.  With  blank-cartridge — 
load.'  An'  that's  the  end  o'  me."  He  was  quot- 
ing fragments  from  Funeral  Parties'  Orders. 

"Stop  ut!"  shouted  Mulvaney.  "Whin  you've 
fired  into  nothin'  as  often  as  me,  over  a  better 
man  than  yoursilf,  you  will  not  make  a  mock  av 
thim  orders.  'Tis  worse  than  whistlin'  the  Dead 
March  in  barricks.  An'  you  full  as  a  tick,  an' 
the  sun  cool,  an'  all  an'  all!  I  take  shame  for 
you.  You're  no  better  than  a  Pagin — you  an' 
your  firin'-parties  an'  your  glass-eyes.  Won't 
you  stop  ut,  sorr?" 

What  could  I  do  ?  Could  I  tell  Ortheris  any- 
thing that  he  did  not  know  of  the  pleasures  of 
his  life  ?  I  was  not  a  Chaplain  nor  a  Subaltern, 
and  Ortheris  had  a  right  to  speak  as  he  thought  fit. 


740  Indian  Tales 

"Let  him  run,  Mulvaney,"  I  said.  "It's  the 
beer." 

"No!  Tisn't  the  beer,"  said  Mulvaney.  "I 
know  fwhafs  comin'.  He's  tuk  this  way  now 
an'  agin,  an'  it's  bad — it's  bad — for  I'm  fond  av 
the  bhoy." 

Indeed,  Mulvaney  seemed  needlessly  anxious; 
but  I  knew  that  he  looked  after  Ortheris  in  a 
fatherly  way. 

"  Let  me  talk,  let  me  talk,"  said  Ortheris, 
dreamily.  "D'you  stop  your  parrit  screamin'  of 
a  'ot  day,  when  the  cage  is  a-cookin'  'is  pore  little 
pink  toes  orf,  Mulvaney?" 

"Pink  toes!  D'ye  mane  to  say  you've  pink 
toes  undher  youi  bullswools,  ye  blandanderin'," 
— Mulvaney  gathered  himself  together  for  a  ter- 
rific denunciation — * '  school-misthress !  Pink  toes ! 
How  much  Bass  wid  the  label  did  that  ravin'  child 
dhrink.?" 

"'Tain't  Bass,"  said  Ortheris.  "It's  a  bitterer 
beer  nor  that.     It's  'omesickness!  " 

"Hark  to  him!  An'  he  goin'  Home  in  the 
Sherapis  in  the  inside  av  four  months! " 

"I  don't  care.  It's  all  one  to  me.  'Ow  d'you 
know  I  ain't  'fraid  o'  dyin'  'fore  I  gets  my  dis- 
charge paipers?"  He  recommenced,  in  a  sing- 
song voice,  the  Orders. 

I  had  never  seen  this  side  of  Ortheris'  character 
before,  but  evidently  Mulvaney  had,  and  attached 


The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris  741 

serious  importance  to  it.  While  Ortheris  bab- 
bled, with  his  head  on  his  arms,  Mulvaney  whis- 
pered to  me  — 

"He's  always  tuk  this  way  whin  he's  been 
checked  overmuch  by  the  childher  they  make 
Sarjints  nowadays.  That  an'  havin'  nothin'  to 
do.     I  can't  make  ut  out  anyways." 

'"Well,  what  does  it  matter?  Let  him  talk 
himself  through." 

Ortheris  began  singing  a  parody  of  "The  Ram- 
rod Corps,"  full  of  cheerful  allusions  to  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death.  He  looked  out  across 
the  river  as  he  sang;  and  his  face  was  quite 
strange  to  me.  Mulvaney  caught  me  by  the 
elbow  to  ensure  attention. 

"Matther?  It  matthers  everything!  'Tis  some 
sort  av  fit  that's  on  him.  I've  seen  ut.  'Twill 
hould  him  all  this  night,  an'  in  the  middle  av  it 
he'll  get  out  av  his  cot  an'  go  rakin'  in  the  rack 
for  his  'coutremints.  Thin  he'll  come  over  to  me 
an'  say,  '  I'm  goin'  to  Bombay.  Answer  for  me 
in  the  mornin'.'  Thin  me  an'  him  will  fight  as 
we've  done  before — him  to  go  an'  me  to  hould 
him — an'  so  we'll  both  come  on  the  books  for 
disturbin'  in  barricks.  I've  belted  him,  an'  I've 
bruk  his  head,  an'  I've  talked  to  him,  but  'tis  no 
manner  av  use  whin  the  fit's  on  him.  He's  as 
good  a  bhoy  as  ever  stepped  whin  his  mind's 
clear.    I  know  fwhat's  comin',  though,  this  night 


742  Indian  Tales 

in  barricks.  Lord  send  he  doesn't  loose  on  me 
whin  I  rise  to  knock  him  down.  'Tis  that  that's 
in  my  mind  day  an'  night." 

This  put  the  case  in  a  much  less  pleasant  light, 
and  fully  accounted  for  Mulvaney's  anxiety.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  coax  Ortheris  out  of  the 
fit;  for  he  shouted  down  the  bank  where  the  boy 
was  lying  — 

"Listen  now,  you  wid  the  'pore  pink  toes' 
an'  the  glass  eyes !  Did  you  shwim  the  Irriwaddy 
at  night,  behin'  me,  as  a  bhoy  shud;  or  were  you 
hidin'  under  a  bed,  as  you  was  at  Ahmid  Kheyl }" 

This  was  at  once  a  gross  insult  and  a  direct  lie, 
and  Mulvaney  meant  it  to  bring  on  a  fight.  But 
Ortheris  seemed  shut  up  in  some  sort  of  trance. 
He  answered  slowly,  without  a  sign  of  irritation, 
in  the  same  cadenced  voice  as  he  had  used  for 
his  firing-party  orders  — 

''Hi  swum  the  Irriwaddy  in  the  night,  as  you 
know,  for  to  take  the  town  of  Lungtungpen, 
nakid  an'  without  fear.  Hand  where  I  was  at 
Ahmed  Kheyl  you  know,  and  four  bloomin' 
Pathans  know  too.  But  that  was  summat  to  do, 
an'  I  didn't  think  o'  dyin'.  Now  I'm  sick  to  go 
'Ome — go  'Ome — go  'Ome!  No,  I  ain't  mammy- 
sick,  because  my  uncle  brung  me  up,  but  I'm 
sick  for  London  again;  sick  for  the  sounds  of  'er, 
an'  the  sights  of  'er,  and  the  stinks  of  'er;  orange 
peel  and  hasphalte  an'  gas  comin'  in  over  Vaux'all 


The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris  743 

Bridge.  Sick  for  the  rail  goin'  down  to  Box'Ill, 
with  your  gal  on  your  knee  an'  a  new  clay  pipe 
in  your  face.  That,  an'  the  Stran'  lights  where 
you  knows  ev'ry  one,  an'  the  Copper  that  takes 
you  up  is  a  old  friend  that  tuk  you  up  before, 
when  you  was  a  little,  smitchy  boy  lying  loose 
'tween  the  Temple  an'  the  Dark  Marches.  No 
bloomin'  guard-mountin',  no  bloomin'  rotten- 
stone,  nor  khaki,  an'  yourself  your  own  master 
with  a  gal  to  take  an'  see  the  Humaners  practicin' 
a-hookin'  dead  corpses  out  of  the  Serpentine  o' 
Sundays.  An'  I  lef  all  that  for  to  serve  the 
Widder  beyond  the  seas,  where  there  ain't  no 
women  and  there  ain't  no  liquor  worth  'avin', 
and  there  ain't  nothin'  to  see,  nor  do,  nor  say, 
nor  feel,  nor  think.  Lord  love  you,  Stanley 
Orth'ris,  but  you're  a  bigger  bloomin'  fool  than 
the  rest  0'  the  reg'ment  and  Mulvaney  wired  to- 
gether! There's  the  Widder  sittin'  at  'Ome 
with  a  gold  crownd  on  'er  'ead;  and  'ere  am  Hi, 
Stanley  Orth'ris,  the  Widder's  property,  a  rottin' 
fool!" 

His  voice  rose  at  the  end  of  the  sentence,  and 
he  wound  up  with  a  six-shot  Anglo- Vernacular 
oath.  Mulvaney  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  me 
as  if  he  expected  that  I  could  bring  peace  to  poor 
Ortheris'  troubled  brain. 

I  remembered  once  at  Rawal  Pindi  having  seen 
a  man,  nearly  mad  with  drink,  sobered  by  being 


744  Indian  Tales 

made  a  fool  of.  Some  regiments  may  know 
what  I  mean.  I  hoped  that  we  might  slake  off 
Ortheris  in  the  same  way,  though  he  was  per- 
fectly sober.     So  1  said  — 

"  What's  the  use  of  grousing  there,  and  speak- 
ing against  The  Widow }" 

"1  didn't!"  said  Ortheris.  "S'elp  me,  Gawd, 
I  never  said  a  word  agin  'er,  an'  1  wouldn't — not 
if  I  was  to  desert  this  minute!  ' 

Here  was  my  opening.  "  Well,  you  meant  to, 
anyhow.  What's  the  use  of  cracking-on  for 
nothing  }  Would  you  slip  it  now  if  you  got  the 
chance  ?" 

"On'y  try  me!"  said  Ortheris,  jumping  to  his 
feet  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

Mulvaney  jumped  too.  "  Fwhat  are  you  going 
to  do  ?  "  said  he. 

"Help  Ortheris  down  to  Bombay  or  Karachi, 
whichever  he  likes.  You  can  report  that  he  sep- 
arated from  you  before  tiffin,  and  left  his  gun  on 
the  bank  here! " 

"I'm  to  report  that — am  I?"  said  Mulvaney, 
slowly.  "Very  well.  If  Orth'ris  manes  to  de- 
sert now,  and  will  desert  now,  an'  you,  sorr, 
who  have  been  a  frind  to  me  an'  to  him,  will 
help  him  to  ut,  I,  Terence  Mulvaney,  on  my  oath 
which  I've  never  bruk  yet,  will  report  as  you  say. 
But" — here  he  stepped  up  to  Ortheris,  and  shook 
the   stock  of   the  fowling-piece  in   his   face — 


The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris  745 

"your  fists  help  you,  Stanley  Orth'ris,  if  ever  I 
come  across  you  agin!  " 

"1  don't  care!"  said  Ortheris.  "I'm  sick  o' 
this  dorg's  life.  Give  me  a  chanst.  Don't  play 
with  me.     Le'  me  go!  " 

"Strip,"  said  I,  "and  change  with  me,  and 
then  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do." 

I  hoped  that  the  absurdity  of  this  would  check 
Ortheris;  but  he  had  kicked  off  his  ammunition- 
boots  and  got  rid  of  his  tunic  almost  before  I  had 
loosed  my  shirt-collar.  Mulvaney  gripped  me  by 
the  arm  — 

"The  fit's  on  him:  the  fit's  workin'  on  him 
still!  By  my  Honor  and  Sow!,  we  shall  be  ac- 
cessiry  to  a  desartion  yet.  Only,  twenty-eight 
days,  as  you  say,  sorr,  or  fifty-six,  but  think  o' 
the  shame — the  black  shame  to  him  an'  me!"  I 
had  never  seen  Mulvaney  so  excited. 

But  Ortheris  was  quite  calm,  and,  as  soon  as 
he  had  exchanged  clothes  with  me,  and  I  stood 
up  a  Private  of  the  Line,  he  said  shortly,  "  Now! 
Come  on.  What  nex'  ?  D'ye  mean  fair.  What 
must  I  do  to  get  out  o'  this  'ere  a-Hell }" 

I  told  him  that,  if  he  would  wait  for  two  or 
three  hours  near  the  river,  I  would  ride  into  the 
Station  and  come  back  with  one  hundred  rupees. 
He  would,  with  that  money  in  his  pocket,  walk 
to  the  nearest  side-station  on  the  line,  about  five 
miles  away,  and  would  there  take  a  first-class 


74^  Indian   Tales 

ticket  for  Karachi.  Knowing  that  he  had  no 
money  on  him  when  he  went  out  shooting,  his 
regiment  would  not  immediately  wire  to  the  sea- 
ports, but  would  hunt  for  him  in  the  native  vil- 
lages near  the  river.  Further,  no  one  would 
think  of  seeking  a  deserter  in  a  first-class  car- 
riage. At  Karachi,  he  was  to  buy  white  clothes 
and  ship,  if  he  could,  on  a  cargo-steamer. 

Here  he  broke  in.  If  1  helped  him  to  Karachi, 
he  would  arrange  all  the  rest.  Then  I  ordered 
him  to  wait  where  he  was  until  it  was  dark 
enough  for  me  to  ride  into  the  station  without 
my  dress  being  noticed.  Now  God  in  His  wis- 
dom has  made  the  heart  of  the  British  Soldier, 
who  is  very  often  an  unlicked  ruffian,  as  soft  as 
the  heart  of  a  little  child,  in  order  that  he  may 
believe  in  and  follow  his  officers  into  tight  and 
nasty  places.  He  does  not  so  readily  come  to 
believe  in  a  "  civilian,"  but,  when  he  does,  he  be- 
lieves implicitly  and  like  a  dog.  I  had  had  the 
honor  of  the  friendship  of  Private  Ortheris,  at  in- 
tervals, for  more  than  three  years,  and  we  had 
dealt  with  each  other  as  man  by  man.  Conse- 
quently, he  considered  that  all  my  words  were 
true,  and  not  spoken  lightly. 

Mulvaney  and  I  left  him  in  the  high  grass  near 
the  river-bank,  and  went  away,  still  keeping  to 
the  high  grass,  toward  my  horse.  The  shirt 
scratched  me  horribly. 


The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris  747 

We  waited  nearly  two  hours  for  the  dusk  to 
fall  and  allow  me  to  ride  off.  We  spoke  of 
Ortheris  in  whispers,  and  strained  our  ears  to 
catch  any  sound  from  the  spot  where  we  had  left 
him.  But  we  heard  nothing  except  the  wind  in 
the  plume-grass. 

"I've  bruk  his  head,"  said  Mulvaney,  earnestly, 
"time  an'  agin.  I've  nearly  kilt  him  wid  the 
belt,  sn'  yet  1  can't  knock  thim  fits  out  av  his  soft 
head.  No!  An'  he's  not  soft,  for  he's  reason- 
able an'  likely  by  natur'.  Fwhat  is  ut  ?  is  ut  his 
breedin'  which  is  nothin',  or  his  edukashin  which 
he  niver  got  ?  You  that  think  ye  know  things, 
answer  me  that." 

But  1  found  no  answer.  I  was  wondering  how 
long  Ortheris,  in  the  bank  of  the  river,  would 
hold  out,  and  whether  I  should  be  forced  to  help 
him  to  desert,  as  1  had  given  my  word. 

Just  as  the  dusk  shut  down  and,  with  a  very 
heavy  heart,  I  was  beginning  to  saddle  up  my 
horse,  we  heard  wild  shouts  from  the  river. 

The  devils  had  departed  from  Private  Stanley 
Ortheris,  No.  226}c),  B  Company.  The  loneli- 
ness, the  dusk,  and  the  waiting  had  driven  them 
out  as  I  had  hoped.  We  set  off  at  the  double 
and  found  him  plunging  about  wildly  through 
the  grass,  with  his  coat  off — my  coat  off,  I  mean. 
He  was  calling  for  us  like  a  madman. 

When  we  reached  him  he  was  dripping  with 


748  Indian  Tales 

perspiration,  and  trembling  like  a  startled  horse. 
We  had  great  difficulty  in  soothing  him.  He 
complained  that  he  was  in  civilian  kit,  and 
wanted  to  tear  my  clothes  off  his  body.  I  or- 
dered him  to  strip,  and  we  made  a  second  ex- 
change as  quickly  as  possible. 

The  rasp  of  his  own  "greyback"  shirt  and  the 
squeak  of  his  boots  seemed  to  bring  him  to  him- 
self. He  put  his  hands  before  his  eyes  and 
said  — 

"Wot  was  \\.}  I  ain't  mad,  I  ain't  sunstrook, 
an'  I've  bin  an'  gone  an'  said,  an'  bin  an'  gone  an' 
done.     .     .     .     ^0/ 'ave  1  bin  an' done!" 

"Fwhat  have  you  done?"  said  Mulvaney. 
"You've  dishgraced  yourself — though  that's  no 
matter.  You've  dishgraced  B  Comp'ny,  an' 
worst  av  all,  you've  dishgraced  Me!  Me  that 
taught  you  how  for  to  walk  abroad  like  a  man — 
whin  you  was  a  dhirty  little,  fish-backed  little, 
whimperin'  little  recruity.  As  you  are  now, 
Stanley  Orth'ris!" 

Ortheris  said  nothing  for  a  while.  Then  he 
unslung  his  belt,  heavy  with  the  badges  of  half  a 
dozen  regiments  that  his  own  had  lain  with,  and 
handed  it  over  to  Mulvaney. 

"  I'm  too  little  for  to  mill  you,  Mulvaney,"  said 
he,  "an'  you've  strook  me  before;  but  you  can 
take  an'  cut  me  in  two  with  this  'ere  if  you  like." 

Mulvaney  turned  to  me. 


The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris  -j^i^ 

"Lave  me  to  talk  to  him,  sorr,"  said  Mul- 
vaney, 

I  left,  and  on  my  way  home  thought  a  good 
deal  over  Ortheris  in  particular,  and  my  friend 
Private  Thomas  Atkins  whom  1  love,  in  general. 

But  I  could  not  come  to  any  conclusion  of  any 
kind  whatever. 


L'ENVOI 

And  they  were  stronger  hands  than  mine 
That  digged  the  Ruby  from  the  earth  — 
More  cunning  brains  that  made  it  worth 
The  large  desire  of  a  King; 
And  bolder  hearts  that  through  the  brine 
Went  down  the  Perfect  Pearl  to  bring. 

Lo,  I  have  wrought  in  common  clay 

Rude  figures  of  a  rough-hewn  race; 

For  Pearls  strew  not  the  market-place 

In  this  my  town  of  banishment, 

Where  with  the  shifting  dust  I  play 

And  eat  the  bread  of  Discontent. 

Yet  is  there  life  in  that  1  make, — 

Oh,  Thou  who  knowest,  turn  and  see. 
As  Thou  hast  power  over  me, 
So  have  I  power  over  these. 
Because  I  wrought  them  for  Thy  sake, 
And  breathe  in  them  mine  agonies. 

Small  mirth  was  in  the  making.    Now 
I  lift  the  cloth  that  cloaks  the  clay. 
And,  wearied,  at  Thy  feet  I  lay 
My  wares  ere  I  go  forth  to  sell. 
The  long  ba^ar  will  praise — but  Thou  — 
Heart  of  my  heart,  have  I  done  well? 
750 


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JAN  1 2  2004 

JAN  1 1 1983 

MA?  0  2  1968 

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\y 


UCLA-Young   Research    Library 

PR4854  .139   1899 
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